A Note Left On Leaves
Reposed in the ghost of light below the dell
Where brunette pine needles and thirsty oak leaves dwell,
The wind hisses in the canopy
Delivering dreams from the crabapple tree:
The cotton white petals flutter toward my lips
But brush on by with soft ginger wisps
That shroud my eyes from the blinking sun,
Then dusts the ground in a snow-like pollen;
Ripe round blooms cup fondly in my hand,
And the flesh blushes while it nears my breath.
The taste revives my memory; I stand,
And float to the tree which marks her death.
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