Apple Blossoms--

They’re cutting the apple trees down; pink blossoms
filtering through the air, treated like so much
dirty dish water. The Orchard says it’s too early
for the trees to blossom, they need to be cut-back,
tamed. My mother’s voice whispers in my head,
“you need to plan for your future, don’t throw it away.”
Even now the blossoms hurtle towards the earth.
Where’s the growth in that?
 
Summers we’d go down to the river,
to a forgotten tree swing. We’d press through
the air in our summer skin.
I landed wrong once, breath evaporated. He was there,
oxygen blossoming reborn in my chest.
 
Pink blossoms, green leaves,
renewal; these things are suppressed,
trained to adopt another shape.
My mother’s voices whispers in my head,
“but what are your plans what do you want?”
His wide palm strains against the bone of my hip.
 
We walk in the woods, his
presence a distraction. His animal grace blinds me.
I can’t see beyond it to shake this feeling that wild things
are just that, wild. They can’t help
but to joyously grow.
 
Cultivated apple trees— they’re being cut
down. Cut down because they curiously
lifted green leaves towards the sun.
 
It’s in the way he moves; he captures the light.
This spring the trees blossom too early, too fully, too joyously.
They’re only just wild enough to blossom at all.

Through the 3rd Eye was supported in its inception by the Grand Rapids Humanities Council and is currently made possible by continued volunteer effort and private support. Copyright 2013.