All across town, the fruit trees are blossoming:
Peach, cherry, apple, plum. They lavish
So much energy on their blossoms—
So intricate the gathers and pintucks,
Still attached to their sepals,
And yet, all this managed
Without taking a stitch
Or threading a needle.

The bee is the courtier, in a striped tux.
So many flouncing skirts
Beckon to him.
Petals dangle like corsets.
Does he know it’s just a dress rehearsal?

Fragrant are the blossoms as they tease
With promises of fruit.
Yet I know the seasons too well.
Abundant the sunshine, yet
Cold piercing the night with moon
That mirrors blossoms’ white.
Rare is the fruit
On a frost-scarred land.

This patchwork arboretum spans
Many yards and alleys.
Blossoms jostle and bob, buoyant in wind,
Abalone shoulders of dancers at a ball.
Do the blossoms know it’s just a dress rehearsal?

The weather forecast is not favorable
To fruition. But wait winter’s sleep, and
There will be another spring.
The bodices of blossoms beckon.
The peplum of apricot billows.
Spring arrived boldly, arrestingly,
Two steps forward,
Then tentatively, one step back,
Like curtains, flowing,
Then stalling, suspended on their batten.
Spectators catch their breath.
Does the audience know
It’s just a dress rehearsal?

There will be another spring.