From the Wilma Street overpass

a wide black ribbon narrows away curving

through morning haze toward a rose-tinted sky,

disappearing in a milky sea of almond flowers.

In the orchards, geometric rows of

gnarly brown trunks and chorus limbs are

canopied by blushing clouds of

perfume pumping blooms.

And in the cool and muffled stillness

rays of sunlight filter through,

casting bright quivering splotches

on the carpet of winter grass.

Spent petals unloose their grip

and glide to ground where

they collect in snowy patches 

and calico the orchard floor.

Humming occupants of stacked white hives

sanctify the grand botanic rite

dragging yellow pollen-heavy legs

from bloom to bloom,

until at dusk in blind fatigue

they crash against their walls

and stagger in on wobbly legs

like revelers from a spree.

In March the winds will come to strip the

scaffold limbs and boil away the blooms,

as infant leaves push up and out to

turn the orchards geen once more.

And deep within the hardy waking trees

embryonic cells assume their places

to botanically audition

for roles in next year's Bloom.

#   #   #