A flowering tree spills
Promises on the ground below,
Where every blossom finds a spot,
To whisper secrets under hues, Of sun and moon laced with dew, As time threads decorates each bend— The hands of yearning lay still— Where the spirit of the tree,
Rooted firm, moves with grace, Beckoning life to come from within; Thus we are one, a flickering glow, Bound in cycles woven,
The music flows beyond the flower— To be caught still. With every petal returned,
Life whispers back, yet again.

• Margaret Atwood