The Last Spring

A Poem About Endurance and Hope

I passed a mighty blossom tree, cut down by tempest storm.

Shattered from its roots it lay, barren where blossoms hoped to swarm.

Each bud bound shut; it seemed to weep for it had passed too soon.

Its tapestry of life was torn from time’s glittering, frail loom.

Three days passed and then I saw a strange, majestic sight.

Wreathed in flowers the tree proclaimed its delicate, perfumed might.

For all the fallen tree had bloomed, though severed from the ground.

It was a melody without a song, a song without a sound.

Broken, yet intent on goal, each bloom proclaimed its will to power.

The tree would have its final spring and wrenched from death a fragrant bower.

I passed beside the garden bed; the tree was cleared and gone.

But what it left will never leave, for what it said goes on.

Illustrations and poem copyright R. M. Hamilton. Photo of Blue Bird generously provided by spring-bird-JillWellington-334088 pixabay