It’s peaking now, my plum tree’s flower show—
a profusion of blooms adorns the tree
as if with branches covered in pink snow.
I tell myself that some are meant for me
and sever twigs to carry through the door,
and plunge them in a vase for my table;
but petals sigh and flutter to the floor
and scatter delicate as tissue paper.
It begs attention, this enchanting tree—
demanding me to notice spring’s coming.
The flowers are an opera Japanese
amid a symphony of bees humming.
Of course, it’s not for me, such confection,
but essential to produce fruit and seed.
Nature doesn’t care for my affection
and answers only to a primal need.
I’m merely an adoring bystander—
not even a poor player on the stage,
as nature exceeds itself in splendor
and pens its own denouement on the page.
