Signs

Watchful, I spy the first buds,
now only the flower's potential,
one day, soon - the fruit.

Impatient, I come here
again, again each day
to measure progress in the budding leaf

or to catch
the lemon in the act of ripening,
quince in mid-blossom,
almond in leaf.

Wait, small heart.
It lingers; wait.
The signs are sure
though August is fickle and eyes are sore.
And God has granted each beauty its day;
rest your eyes on this
today.