Trey Moody

Excuse me, but I must say a few words,
for the backyard Bradford pear has finally bloomed
on this day, the nineteenth of February, a bright
Thursday afternoon. Here, where weather
avoids dramatic change, the seasons shift more subtly,
though this morning’s graveyard now glows,
crowded with store-bought color. Mostly music
escaped the radio then, the occasional voice thick
and content with these local conditions, so I
kept driving, even when the empty school bus
slowly passed, full of silence. I don’t know too much
regarding trees, but as for the beautiful foliage of spring
you may have read about in Buson or Walser,
the Bradford’s white blossoms, those small breaths
swollen for just a few faint weeks, are the only evidence
the backyard ever sees. So I trust you will understand,
when, not too far from now, I’ll have to write
of the cows huddled under the oak’s shade
like calm statues, of the train engineer’s excitement
while directing freight through the sleeping town,
of my feet beginning to numb in the clear river, needing
to pee but needing also to stand very still.

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