Much is written

of rose-strewn paths;

but I prefer to

tread —

lightly, bare of foot —

the petals

dashed to ground

by recent rain

of the leaning cherry —

still pink,

still damp,

still fragrant.

A blushing robe

discarded;

while nearby,

tucked in switch and

bramble,

the catbirds’ songs

weave and flutter like

scattered, honeyed

light.

— C.Birde, 5/17