In spring, you don’t have to talk to the crabapple;
let the rain do the talking.
White blossoms, like corners of drowsy eyes,
Strange icy droplets,
your fingers spread wide beneath the tree.
At the branch tips, condensing and falling,
is the rain’s incessant reply.
While with your umbrella, you open
They can’t be answered;
you don’t understand that a flower doesn’t wilt
but naturally, furled by the wind.
Still, you immerse yourself in asking.
Springtime is misleading,
and you can’t restrain your doubts.
If a dream is just a dream,
then what’s lost remains lost.
You don’t have to talk to the crabapple anymore;
the rain will do the talking.
As you return your umbrella this afternoon,
what ought to fall, has already fallen,
what is yet to emerge, is not yet emergent.
Crabapple Blossoms | Poetry is a story from our issue, “Lessons For Life.” To read the entire issue, become a subscriber and receive the full magazine. Alternatively, you can purchase the digital version from the App Store.