Ode to the Apple Blossom
by Emily Isaacson
Pale frosted glass decree
was both innocuous and wise;
and twig-like floral mantle
hung down, decorous,
to Victorian ground.
The apple blossoms sprinkled
pouring cream with applesauce
and homespun airy cotton quilting,
deftly stitched,
in moonlit minuet.
I saw the tree like a gallows,
its arms rising into the sky,
its trunk gnarled with years
and it breathed of lower life
where dreams were trod.
Where apples would usually fall,
where whitened crook
led sheep to drink
on pastures clean and high in dew,
the shepherdess rested.
A multitude of blooms,
effulgent and with pink power,
their piercing music
and feathered grail
tells of each one.
Illumined in laser-like sincerity,
the light will dance
from moon, to ray, to ground,
through snowy branches twined
with night.
