The Blossoms

The breezes pass with gentle tread.
The blossoms bend and blow.
The sun may warm or rain may spill,
But still the blossoms grow.

At times the weeds may strive to choke,
And pull the blossoms down.
Yet ever on strong limbs they climb,
The rich, warm earth to crown.

The crumble of last season's growth
Provides the fertile loam,
From which derives the blossoms' strength,
In which they've made their home.

Their roots delved deep within this soil.
Thus, when the storm winds passed,
Though they were troubled by the gales,
Those strong, deep roots held fast.

The blossoms offer their sweet gift,
Which through the garden spreads.
It spills from petals gently tossed
And fills the nearby beds.

And as the gentle breezes blow,
The blossoms, stirring as they go,
Lift ruffled leaves to briefly show
That in their shade new blossoms grow.