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.
