Should I, lain. in passion’s bower, love the bud, but hate the flower?
Or, tremble at thine rooted thirsts, but deny the blood born wood?
Can it be said, it is not for me, but to revel in untrammeled verdantcy?
Buds shake in tender breezes, turn crumbled, dry dead in freezes
Sprightly twigs transform with care to rough-skinned branches, old
Bright colors, gaiety, promises are found amongst the saplings
No fruit, though; and, once born, no fruit, for years, worth having
With age, comes nurture, nests and providence hung on branches
True, in further years, barrenness comes; even so, shelter remains
Until, eventually, all is laid to rest, and memories keep one warm
One can lay amongst the saplings, peer at their dancing forms
There is beauty there, promise, and a longing to gain that offer
But, only amongst mature bowers, does one find promise fulfilled