“It’s the wrong season
for this unfolding,
this bright and painful
and bursting forth,”
I whisper heatedly in the blossom’s ear.
Because, damn, I could have used your purple body-heart wisdom
when the harvest moon
peaked over pine mountain
high over strawberry fields
back in that simple season of music and fire.
Where were you when the caterpillar
was wandering around in that big garden
eating the wrong things and
stumbling over its entangled legs?
The blossom replies:
But does the full moon ask
why it wasn’t whole last week?
Does the apricot tree
complain of its flowering?
Does summer arrive mourning winter?
The big hard sun dissolves all
and calls forth new things
in the silence of summer’s eve
Perhaps everything arrives on time