One night in winter
when nothing has been sufficient,
at the point when the days are too short,
the evenings too long
also, bleak, the mystery
also, resigned buds of the apple
blooms start their fast
rising to light. Night
after relentless night
the sugars pucker and swell
into green slips, green
silks. What's more, similarly as you find
yourself toward the end
of winter's long, cool
rope, the blooms open
like pink thimbles
also, that dark bit
of sparkle called
honey bee staggers in.
