Lay for the Day
A seasonal song for the time of cherry blossom, from the book of Praises.
Of the Morello
We planted when we came,
barely waist high,
in April, we watch
for the last time completely
swathed in flowers, under a sky
like summer, and that now
The brown honey-bees
go fumbling into blossom
after blossom, whose work we shant see:
the cherries neither so bitter nor black
as we expected, but clear-fleshed,
red and yellow, acid.
The blackbirds got them before us.
So entirely white, so beautiful
and plentiful is its flowering this spring
its painful almost to look at, unbearably
fragile and temporary. Imploring
every wind that rises to blow
gently on it, letting go,
our wish as a charm upon it, that every
hand that follows on ours may lend itself to tend it.
(July. Still here.
on bark thatŐs rent and cleft,
over holes that ants frequent,
having poked out first with a stick
portly herds of St Anthonys pigs
that delve and cluster where the trunk is split.
The thing we most possess
shaped to the sunshine ten careful years
up from the shadowed yard. A curse
on property bought and sold
and praises and blessings on all that grows and,
growth, grows at
in the end
we belong to.
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