Molly Frederick shares another delicious poem.

Apple Blossoms
By Molly Frederick

I am remembering apple blossoms
on a warm summer day–
ecstasies of white,
tinged with seashell pink.
I see trees bearing their apple dreams
in shivering clouds on wide, able
shoulders.
I see baskets full of them slung across
strong arms, and plump fingers
covered in bloom. But,
all too soon, the petals begin to fall.

Dots of white drift down
to join the scattered flecks, the
many tips of pure white gloves
touching the grass, nearly covering it.
The sky looks on, mute and blue.
That is the way I remember it.
Pale green would have just emerged.
Bees would be hovering
on the edges of the flickering breeze.
A sharp, sweet floral fragrance,
heady with life, would float from
the trees in warm dusty waves.
The first blossom seen, I believe,
is the one best remembered;
although now, in summer, even that
has changed.
For in memory, I see only petals opening,
opening into sheer brightness.
And, for a moment, it becomes so easy
to believe in the bliss
of a patiently waiting hereafter.
The whiteness. A gentle blush. And
the scent of apple blossoms on the air.