Made Visible

The yard is swathed in blossoms.

Ornamental plum come full circle,
its leaves like paper revisions
discarded

to this season with pale burgundy
droplets falling. As if to sound
breath’s arterial thread

through the body’s old canals.

This honey powder hint. Responsive in breeze.
Transparent feeder empty against the tree
where holiday lights remain in sunlight.
Spark of what comes next. 

Crab apple or apricot. Promise of patient
daughter. Her pockets.   

Yet as I watch this morning there is

no one out there and no picking yet
except to spy the subtler pigments –

pink and white and hint of tan

peering from the tips of tributaries.
One branch you’ve tied together at a bend as if
we know something of grafting. Or, simply,

set out to repair what’s gone absent with
brittle memory.