Buds

The blood red vibrant buds on the trees ignite
in a chaotic emergence against the pale blue sky.
The infant spring sheen of the warm sun,
beckons my mind into a garden of oblivion.
Heavy thoughts are lost to the miniature whistles
of the happy house finch.
Breeze sweeps crumbs of dreams that were never clinched.
Penetrating the soul's rich soil
are fresh buds of ideas that have remained loyal.
Before blossoms burst, my black dirt voraciously thirsts.
And then joyous daffodils destroy winter's curse.