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.
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Causes Monty Heying Supports