These are the small mercies
that tend our lives:
spring blossoms, tender cirulean skies,
the eternal and yet ever-changing tides,
the moments in between,
where peace abides.
Tip back your head
and drink the heady fumes
of cherry blossoms
thick upon the bough.
The world we knew and loved
seems to be ending,
but this heady scent
is balm enough for now.
I plant a seed of hope
inside this poem,
to help you ride through
times as dark and these.
I fling it far
upon the springtime breeze.
May it find its loving way to you
with ease.
A small seed of hope for Susan's prompt at What's Going On : Seeds