Apple blossoms on the feral trees
have a light all their own, cool ivory
of petals already fallen. One mile,
maybe two, north from Beetree,
a hint of wind nudged through the gap,
the slightest sleight-of-hand. Two miles,
maybe three—stung ivory, coinage
of stars—new leaves on the beech sprouts
silken enough to swaddle a child.
Copyright © 2014 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.