March Monarch

Little blossom
I saw you rise
from the bud of branch
to your pink disguise
and there was grace
how you pranced along
as though you were
a Renaissance song
then you crept by hand
from trunk to bark
for you still believe
you're the March Monarch

But you were nothing
save a bud transpired
to blossom
that bloomed
that bloomed
is it wretched to be
that kind of used?

If I call you in summer
just where will you be?
Blossom, dear blossom
you are no kind of tree
and no one will play
in your symphony