Delicate Blooms

My soul, it ebbs and flows for you, still.  Blindly sensing the seasons.  A taste of Spring then back to cold.  All lines blurred, all thoughts distant, in need of fresh blooms.  Beginnings, cyclical not new.   Options are only physical, insides are fated.  And they've always been.  Talking about it doesn't help.  Tangled string; a delicate web – lets watch the patterns unfold.