Aromas' Prize

The petals falling,
Pollen flowing,
Twisting, turning,
Gales so free
Behold the wonder
Softly burning
'Neath that gray
Old Maple tree.

The mists still rise,
Aromas' prize,
Bewitching something
Far from me.
Attracting somewhere
In that spring
The empty gaze
That lets me be.

And here we speak,
A winning streak,
That pulls us out
Of dreams so bold;
It shows the mirror,
Backing doubt
Within this soul
To leave me cold.

The happiness, bright, young, and sweet
Surrenders us that lonesome treat
To show how far below we'll fall
Within the six foot deep,
Such fissures,
Canyons low, they'll make us crawl
Until we note the beauty of it:
The irony of a climb so steep.