I wrote this a few years ago, and it is precisely that time of year again where I live:
CRABAPPLE TREE
The crabapple tree, now
Over six feet, planted
In the rockiest hole ever dug, out back.
Planted over Sabbie’s ashes.
One good
Dog, and an old one when
he finally and peacefully died.
The buds have just opened with tiny
green leaves, again,
with much hurried growing to do, and then,
blossoms.
Waiting this time of year, I
confirm
That those rioting blossoms
constitute
My most sacred moment,
their arrival
a melancholy
optimistic speck in an
earthly blink.
Spiritually speaking, the tree’s blossoms shout more
fervently
than prayers,
have more weight
than temples,
exalt in louder chorus
than psalms.
The world is at war, and
I hate religion.
But this tree is bliss, and sadly so.
Oh Sabbie good dog!
My secret National Pleasure,
Waiting for blossoms like we await
the end of these days,
That a change of seasons might
open doors that no one else will--
to peace on earth, and its
Pleasures.
Sacred this day:
The Pleasures of Tree.
The Pleasures of Dog, and
Fond memory of
that Hardest Hole
I ever dug.