The youngest of the trees
are the most impatient.
They have defiantly disregarded
the wind and the weather.
Their thin light brown branches, prematurely spattered with pale
pops of pinks. Their immature
limbs arrogantly reach
straight up to the sky.
Their flowers are fragile,
but they purse their petals and sing,
boldly,
too loudly,
into the sunshine.

Off in the distance,
the elders wait patiently.
Their dark thick gnarled limbs,
time-worn and age-tested,
jutting out in all directions,
like so many arthritic fingers, hold on until the moment is right.
They stand by and watch the youngsters with a sense of nostalgia
and knowing disapproval.
They will keep a firm grip
on every single sprout,
until there is a string
of several springlike days.
Until the nights are warm enough
to inspire the buds to burst.
Until it feels
safe enough to sing,
to shine.
And then, all at once,
an orchestrated explosion
of fantastical fuchsia.
The forum will be overfilled.
Sweet symphony of spring.

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