Those who tempers optimistic,
bright and buoyant,
what unusual fates they have.

Cleansing life's path
of thorns strewn,
assembling each straw
to build a nest,
trapping fragrance,
adorning gardens,
their life is spent.

Their life consumed,
they gift the flowers.
give all away.

Not that, the
drudgery of
the unending toil
goes unrewarded,
blood-money
for longings that die
goes unpaid.

All pleasures that life
enfolds, come their way;
with one and all
they are endowed,
but late always,
ever delayed.

Rewarded they are
for the slog, the grind
but bit by bit,
like borrowed money
returned in parts;
the actual writing
fading into the hidden rear.
In teeming spring,
their flowers all
are the last to bloom;
the sun in their courtyards
appears late.