It is the season, I remember,
when the clusters of flowers
rip free of their cocoons and
grasp the warming sun, spewing
out their sweet fragrance
to bees and people alike.
They know their time is short,
turn riotous in pastel shades
white, pink, purple, lilac
they hope we will not soon forget.
It was always like that, an annual
rite of beauty that we have
given up as we did the winter
whose icy grip released them
to grace a too short spring
before fading into the heat
of a summer always waiting
for her annual appearances.