Love, As It May Be

I crave to press spring 
memories in the pages 
of softest moleskin.

Journals with petals 
spurring out from the buds of 
newly birthed flowers. 

Delicate as young 
love always is: bound to be 
broken by mistake.

Endless as Mother 
Earth intends. But when does Break
call for Mend? Can the

thin stem of a pink
Hydrangea be replanted
and grown once again?