by Tyler Mortensen

All day I have been trying to describe
   the white blossoms
that have opened on the trees—
   the soft wings of their petals
flecked with rain—
   and all day I have been
a bad poet, saying nothing
   that the flowered limbs
don’t say themselves.

Others walk among the trees
   and hardly look at them; write
nothing, say nothing, though
   the scent of wet branches
washes over them as they pass
   under boughs… Beauty

is no luxury; rather,
   it is like the rain, without which
the trees, the earth, would
   not survive; which has no choice

but to stream down.