Morning Poem -

Each morning of this winter, I have come to my desk and as the day gets light, a plume of smoke arches from a home across the way.  I looked for it this morning and my eye was caught on a slightly lower arch, a bower of white.  Thus, my poem for today.

 

Spring

 

No smoke this morning across the way,

only an arch of blossoms,

liquid,

in the stillness,

of their spray.