Curled dogwood blossoms fade
from pink to mottled peach.
Light, that shone from within,
like the glow on your skin
when you lay swaddled at my breast,
sits heavy on leathery petals.
In shy retreat they greet the hardening sun,
browning at edges, older, wiser and ready
to begin feast of wind, bee and pollen.
Germination into seed, freed into earth.
Thrusting through seasoned mulch,
three dicotyledon sprouts, their flesh
fresh and green, like your children
reaching for sun and space,
thirsty for growth and claiming depth,
determined to make