The blossoming

The brown buds
Tightly strain
And swell on wiry
Finger-like branches,
Reaching outwards
And up towards
Spring’s new sun
In hope of bathing
In the invisible glow
Of ultraviolet.
Within awaits a furled
Canopy of pink explosion
Ready for the precise unseen
And unwatched moment
When they will burst open,
Announcing the change
Of season and the coming
Fruit yet a season away.
There is a time for wintering,
Budding and blossoming,
And though the blossom or
The fruit cannot be seen
Today, yet they will come,
In an unseen
And unwatched moment.