This was the result of Ms. Ballard first letting us play with poetry and
the forsythia. FINALLY.
The forsythia reaches up, tall and thin,
tangled bushes of bones pointing to empty sky,
rattling out their tale of winter death.
Under pounding rain the branches drink their fast,
breaking it finally with warm sunshine.
Sepia and tan absorb the glow, soaking up
yellow comfort, finally fed and nurtured,
until they're saturated and overflow,
sunlight exploding into their star blossoms.
Just so am I with you,
stretching towards your smile,
till I can bask in your
bursts of laughter, and explode
my love for you outwards