The air is ripe with the music of songbirds.
Its hue is honeysuckle and wine.
The sweetness of berries awaken my tongue.
Ah, laughter straddles the beaming sun.
My hands are full. Here are the things that grow
and here are the things that bloom
The gift of the seasons, this moment
will never be again, even if at first glance
the minutes look the same. I take each one
savor its every corner and rhyme
and kiss it, kiss it
as it rises in the mist and dissipates.