speckled magenta, blushing unabashedly
as they sway along bony threads of branches.
My lips pucker slightly in response,
wondering what may come of gently pressing them
into just one of those pink flowery clouds,
and I begin to blush too.
Spring is an opening to life,
a resurrection from arctic darkness,
and I feel myself opening
simply by gazing at this explosion of color
hanging a few feet above my head.
Perhaps if I stand here long enough,
these cherry blossoms will finally fold me into their kisses,
and I could lose myself in their living
and dance to the song of Springtime flowers.