requests and dedications, 10 pm to 2 am
Leah begged me to post this. So I will. Because I love her dearly :- )
the crabapple blossom
Every year in April they explode into a pink cloud
And every year one day I take a cotton-candy spray
And tuck it behind my ear.
It does not, I found, become me particularly
But I wear it as a proclamation of love
Of some beauty which, although we do not enhance one another
I nevertheless wish to attach to.
This year, though, I have not taken my spray
And they are nearly gone
The ground around the tree is carpeted in tissue-paper pink
And the only blossoms left hang down beneath smooth serrated green
I stroke a branch-I cannot keep my hands off them-
And one already loosened falls into my hand-
A gift
An answer to my yearly claim
And so I place it behind my ear.
A moment later, thoughtless, I brush back my hair with too-thick fingers
And a shower of petals flutters past my eyes;
Almost apologizing to the half-stripped blossom
I draw it out and hold it
The petals are pale, almost white, and whisper-thin
With dark pink veins threading them through.
I hold it as I always hold such tokens
Waiting for the right breath of wind or change of mood
To tell me where to put it
To complete the moment. I live my life
Too much like a story, expecting
A well-turned scene at every crisis.
But the turning may not be here after all
Attainable any more than the dust-blond hair
Beginning to curl along your jaw.
And there is a branch-stump here
Pruned some four or five years ago
With a black crevice
And I slide in the pale yellow stem
And let the pale pink spray
Bloom out of the stump.
the crabapple blossom
Every year in April they explode into a pink cloud
And every year one day I take a cotton-candy spray
And tuck it behind my ear.
It does not, I found, become me particularly
But I wear it as a proclamation of love
Of some beauty which, although we do not enhance one another
I nevertheless wish to attach to.
This year, though, I have not taken my spray
And they are nearly gone
The ground around the tree is carpeted in tissue-paper pink
And the only blossoms left hang down beneath smooth serrated green
I stroke a branch-I cannot keep my hands off them-
And one already loosened falls into my hand-
A gift
An answer to my yearly claim
And so I place it behind my ear.
A moment later, thoughtless, I brush back my hair with too-thick fingers
And a shower of petals flutters past my eyes;
Almost apologizing to the half-stripped blossom
I draw it out and hold it
The petals are pale, almost white, and whisper-thin
With dark pink veins threading them through.
I hold it as I always hold such tokens
Waiting for the right breath of wind or change of mood
To tell me where to put it
To complete the moment. I live my life
Too much like a story, expecting
A well-turned scene at every crisis.
But the turning may not be here after all
Attainable any more than the dust-blond hair
Beginning to curl along your jaw.
And there is a branch-stump here
Pruned some four or five years ago
With a black crevice
And I slide in the pale yellow stem
And let the pale pink spray
Bloom out of the stump.