After Blossom, a Painting by Phil Greenwood
A thousand stars caught in the branches of the apple tree
and hung like stunned wishes. Some fell to the grass,
blazing white among the buttercups, the fierce green.
If we could truly see the world, its brightness would burn.
Sightless, we would stare all day out the window.
Maybe it’s best that few can glimpse the grace,
and then only at moments, painting it in pigments
ground from the earth, in bright patterns of paper
and glass, hymning it in syllables of measured breath,
humming along with the bees, carrying
sweetness from one white cup to another.