All over the bush, on every branch, hundreds of these.

Walk on me.

Sharon’s rose.

Worker bee on a sticky shaft.

There suck I.

Bootstraps of a bee.

Exquisite workmanship at every bloom. She outdoes herself.

Know what I mean?

The thrust of it.

The blooms of dill are lovely in life,
are changed but, in death, undiminished.

Proud death.

Dill and gone.

Smile at the sun smiling,
and filter every ugly thing.

Smile and say, "ah!"

Life star terrestrial.

Pure love, immutable, golden.

Not Texas, just taxes.

Yellow rose represents.

Tabled motion in the parliament of flowers.

Vase of transcience.

Beauty arranged.

Above the orchard about a hundred yards, history barks a lesson.
The big trunk was a chestnut brought down by blight.
The little trunk was second growth, brought low by blight’s grandson.
Blight too shall pass.

Brave try.

Chestnut, not spreading.

Nothing beside remains.
Hunks of trunk at the root.
All the branches have become brush
after a hundred seasons of blossom and fruit.


Alas, poor York!

A little sadness for the loss of shade and loss of keeper apples,
and loss of the bird staging arena of limbs and twigs.

But a hundred-year reign is a fruit-tree jubilee.

 Blessed be.