Airborne blossoms
simulate snow,
a blushed blizzard
of parachuting pear petals
touches down on up turned
ground, a new garden.
Seeds captive in a sack
await almanac
for thumb deep immersion
in sanctified soil,
new life in three days rain…
a bud added to the body
of earth to catch sunbeams
and make them fruit.
Unless a saint dies in harvest
saints can’t spring up.
The Savior taught that from a tree.
Scorned, thorned, born
for this, to breathe His life
into the mud of a man.
