the March winds
are bone-chilling
the flowers
which thought spring
had, as they say, sprung
now wither and die
on the vine
still . . .
while they are fresh
and vibrant
we look at them and
realize how ancient
they truly are
how many centuries
have the flowers we
admire been on this
planet we call earth
the wisteria flowering trees
comes to mind
supposed to be the most ancient
of the flowering trees
everything is old
when you come down
to it
we can sing our songs
lauding the beauty we
see . . .
and yes we do sing
lending our voices to
complete the love of a rose
we sing of a garden
called Eden
to whisper about Eve
and her sinful ways
which we men followed
her to be cast out
at night we lie awake
listening to our own ancient
voices until sleep
rescues us from the
days of yore and to
quiet the whispers as
night engulfs us and
we sleep and dream
of flowers that never fade

©March 18, 2014 / Jerry Pat Bolton

~*~ In America, anyone can become president. That's the problem. ~*~

~*~ In America, anyone can become president. That's the problem. ~*~