pollen

How long did I wait,
for you to bloom,
when did the first,
buds grow?

Did the florist,
gather the buds,
hungrily lusting,
for the flower?

Or was the wisdom,
of waiting,
of knowing,
what was to come,
the building of joy,
in certain knowledge,
beauty contained,
for all to not see,
to busy,
with the forest?

I smelled the tell tale signs,
before I could see,
drawn to the new beauty of it all.

Now - late in season,
beauty gone to seed,
I smelled the musty wind,
of love's spoiled beauty.

Still,
seasons come,
and we may witness,
the seeds we left,
may yet need,
solitude,
to start again.

How old do they feel?
The ones knowing,
of the seeds before them?
How young,
the ones unaware,
they are seeds?
How comforted,
the ones that know,
seeds after them?

How long,
did will you wait,
for winter's passage?