The Burden

Apple bloom spread on the orchard floor,
Swept from the trees by the broom of the wind,
Bows down the tips of startled grass—
Grasses too young to have sinned.

And they must be for a little while
Content with the bloom of a foreign flower.
As a weight of love or gift from the wind,
It will fade and drift in an hour.

Then with a wave of running green
They’ll swiftly wash the orchard floor,
And taunt blind roots on long hot days
With the pale pink bloom they bore.