That they return to us each year
from the interior, from the
mute, iced-over selves of winter trees.
That they return to us:
deep feelings infusing
the avenue. Women, men
walking beneath boughs,
at their perfection which is a kind
of meditation, each blossom
an atom of softest cloud.
A mass, a profusion, blooms
overwhelm the vision, saturate
the eyes until lids close, let the nostrils
make sense of the spectacle, grasp
the perfume, powdery and porous,
an intense, forgotten pleasure.
That this phenomenon called
spring could summon the honey
of the human heart to flow
upward, a golden wave
clouding the calculating brain,
overriding, that instant,
all pain, guilt, sorrow,
that is the power we call