The Last Tree Blossom Poem by Christopher Teale

All year I have waited patiently, sighing.
Waiting the year has gone by... the trees turn red.
Just as nature seems to die, the bud bursts instead.

Spring in Autumn last flower to tease the frost.
So late to arrive, she dazzles the imagination.
So soon to leave, she rides away on furious winds.

Time's name is cruelty!

I turn to face the winter with a stoic heart.
When darkness creeps, I will remember,
and keep my memories as a warming ember.
Memories of the last tree blossom.