The Rhythm Of Spring (Rod McKeun)

All the trees are pink.
Plum blossoms,
or are they small extensions
of the clouds,
fill the lower sky
above the horizon
trapping the season
for all time,
or for what time
we know it.

Your smile is only your smile
or is it?
Maybe it's one more opening
into you
that I should come through
softly

Softly, I will come,
I will be
concerning you.
Your rhythm will be my own.
Even your heartbeat
should not be
independent.