flock furcation and new shoots
and shotgun shells but
the felled tree blossoms say:
we're not done yet, so says
some authorial voice
some iterate layer
who knits it all into the season's syntax
for the pareidolic poet, that early spring birch,
in deeper purples now
all hints of approaching buds and healing winter bruises
and come closer,
come closer, you,
you're just a little lost in the meadow -
so head towards the sunset
because that's the way home