The apple tree in our yard
clutches its bunched blossoms in tight fists
the petals of each flower packed so close
a single piece of ruffled white velvet
dressed out in measured wrinkles
against the green palms of newly opened buds.
The peak of widened flowers
fully formed before they fade–
is just a day.
Floral snow soon drifts
matter melting, rotting in a perfect circle
on the grass about the apple trunk.
But a day in late spring is long
and we are lucky in my house.
There are friends who do not have a tree
a house, a flower