The dogwood blooms later
this year and marks the tardy rebirth
of the earth, our home, beautifying
after a dreadful winter purge.
The flowers drop their pinkish petals,
the dogwood blooms later
but it is still just as elegant as
an orchid sitting in tranquil solitude.
It stands its ground like a graceful
Bonzai, but holds the power of an oak tree.
The dogwood blooms later
and it makes a mosaic piece in the garden.
It knows of the horrors beyond its view
and senses the tremors of its mother,
but remains stoic and grows; nonetheless,
the dogwood blooms later.
Posted in response to the challenge Spring: Writing Contest.
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