The blossom is falling
out there, in a May dawn,
of grey skies and high
winds, sun edging over,
like snow, soft and quiet.

And now a soft rain
falls, gossamer curtain,
lit by the light, gentle,
delicate.  Tree leaves shine
red, and the birds
whistle to one another
unseen, from the hedges.

Pale gentle dawn rain
falls on the garden,
refreshing the dry ground.
I am like a clock
unwound, hands still.  Bed-
bound and host to
viruses esconsed and
blossoming.  Wound-carrying

into May once the frosts
have gone and the snow
into memory of other
winters.  Not an hour passes
when I do not think
of what has been.

And, yet to come?  Soft
rain, blossom-falling, new
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