‘A few almond trees / had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes /

out of the blue looking pink in the light’ —James Schuyler


We sleep through its becoming, the growth

a mimicry of ice & bud –  
Do not disturb the delicate

growing crystals, the leaflet reads
but we do, and how quickly

they drop from paper boughs. In spring
your sister, swinging, said ‘Look! The tree

is snowing.’
They were cherry blossoms, but I thought

of quinces – the fruit
my mother’s horse, soft-mouthed

at thirty, could only nuzzle. ‘Kick
your legs out then back

in again,’ I said. ‘Then you’ll keep swinging.’ 
She never did, but

white petals showered us both.