Pops of yellow paint a scene,
Bobbing heads on stalks of green.
Silent authors of stories yet to be spoken,
Inspire the pages of a heart awoken.
Dancing in the wind, caressing a child’s fingers,
Your beauty brief, but eternally lingers.
Mother of Spring, I know we soon will part,
Your wind scattered words, leave a stain upon my heart.
© Deborah Jackson March 2012