The · Word · Pirate

For there is patience in the cold of earth,
the bustle of a thousand lives
long redressed in dirt and death
awaiting a more slender birth
across a field's spring floral girth.

Flowers, burst so slow at first,
uncurling quiet, humble limbs
all green, ungrown, but growing still,
quickly quench their hopeful thirst,
blossom loud and sweet and well rehearsed

Bethroned, they sing, proud and petal light,
laughing at the solemn trees, 
bending blind to seed-tossed breeze,
all busy buzz above busy weeds,
who more swiftly woke from winter's night,
and treat each dawn's thaw as autumn's sight.

But mild winds soon wild gust,
whip-chilling verdant wisps to rust
and all of those attentive bees flee with their buzz
high above to oaken hives,
where, solemn rooted, a tree survives.