Tendrils tenderly tiptoe
from roots amidst murky mire
Ten minutes, ten months, ten years ago
Tendentious shoots not long expired
Will blossom come to bloom
or welcome in groundsman with shears and broom?
Dutiful mutual tutelage
twixt Nemo, the nymph and ‘the now’
Two pupils too stupidly close to the ledge
of success and separation’s bow
Will bloom bask in beams
or be condemned to room, vase and dreams?
Wanting, waiting and wilting
for spring and its flurry to come
One thing one knows, that one’s tilting
will bring one from worry into sun
Will blossom lay below
and cover the soil, your pillow?