Waking, I thought
a blizzard had come in the night.
The impression faded with my first
deep breath: apple blossoms, the body
heavy with them, impossible to wake.
Outside the screen door, gray light
through green branches, white flowers.
My wife stirred. I guess she was dreaming
her old dream: a fox in the orchard,
stars spilling dust on the fruit.
As the sun rose, her back and shoulders
were touched gold. Bees tapped
at the screen, humming, their wings
too fast to see. I let
them do the work.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 3 Number 7, on page 41
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