a sweet wine prophecy
delivered on the raspy tongue
of a tough love, loving wind

spring breezes
as brisk as they are
aren't quick enough
to outsmart time

the seed must sprout
before the seedling
gets a tentative peak at dawn





the bud must overcome a mother's tight grip
the bloom must dance among sharp blades
to the tune of the brutal March tempest

the reaping cannot come before the sweet nothing whispers
a flower nurtures the mind but does little for the flesh
petals wither too quickly, thorns make poor scaffolding

berries must first don bitter green
before graduating to pneumatic raspberry and plum

allow the days to languish
poke around and step back a bit

a season rushed
is a harvest loss