Nothing like blossoms

Nothing like blossoms
Which flare to life for the next
Generation, cut
By their very existence;
Who will gather our petals?

Although, our seasons
Are likewise short, aren't they?
Billions of heads raised
To the sun; but are we such
Things that never bloom again?

Sandhill Cranes

Swaying red poppies,
The sandhill cranes make their way 
Pacing so slowly;
Such days are gifts to watch traipse,
Though always away from me.

Myrtle and Magnolia

The master grafted
A myrtle branch to a bough
Of magnolia;
At times more white blooms than black,
But the forms their mixture makes!