Where The Hour-flower Falls...(into Madrigals)

We garner momentous whispers

While the days to seasons blur

Bud breaks, flower blooms then withers

Winter turns to gossamer

We collect to heart-shaped pages

Bitter and sweet adjectives

In the ‘meanwhile’ that engages

Hands and feet with objectives

We gather the grin-and-bear-it

With the favorite fair and fond

Where all too soon we inherit

Echoes wafting from felled frond

Morning breaks the bud that blushes

From first pulses to full bloom

Where the dash of moments crushes

Murmurs falling from its plume

Poetry is pressed from petals

Where the hour-flower falls

Like ink-drops its mettle settles

In permanent madrigals

© Janet Martin

...although the wind still has some bite in it,
today's bud was a little less frosted than yesterday morning's white surprise
blooming beneath white skies!