The Last of the Blossom (Poetry)

The breeze today is bringing down the blossom
it picks and tugs and teases it away
until it flutters free — small fitful blizzards
that thicken April air. At last they lay
in quiet drifts piled light in crooks and corners
around the garden, careless of decay.

This gentle snow swirls silent in the sunshine
a thousand petals at a single blow
tumbling from the tree that gave them succour
and falling to a fate they cannot know.
A toiling bee works through remaining flowers
as if he counts how quickly seasons go.