We plucked a poem out of a book, scissored it off while the words and letters still popped,

while the lines and stanzas curtsied and blushed.

We dried and pressed it between the years, between cherry leaves. That makes no sense.

Then folded and folded it, posted into a hole in a stone-fruit tree.

Dark days went away When you came

It was an old style, home-style poem.

Meaning what? Meaning blossom as light, blossom as hope after winter's tunnel,

after the narrow dark. The plan was to reignite the living flame if the flame went out.

Hey presto. In April, the poem budded and bloomed and we read it, chanted it, knew it by heart.

And all the light of you

But it blossomed again in July, then again in December, drunk on meltwater,

drugged with the tepid milk of the winter sun. The whole world blooms

And all the noise of you

What had we done?

What had we done? The whole world blooms

And all the light of you And all the noise of you The whole world blooms

The streets are learning the language of plum blossom.

The trees have spoken. Pink cherry blossom drifts past the heavy windows of airport hotels.

Speck of white blossom on the boss's new blue suit. First cuckoo of spring, cherry in full bloom defeathered by

Friday's storm.

Fresh sparrow hawk strike. Dark days went away When you came

Pollen changes hands. Dark days went away The wild cherry tree dumped me, When you came

The bee's buy and sell. It's market day on Plum Street.

Today a pear tree in bloom, tomorrow a flute. And all the noise of you

then brought me flowers, then dumped me again. Wind plays through the boughs. And all the light of you

Ignite the beacons. News of the blackthorn's return travels hill to hill. The whole world blooms

Charged by evening sun. The cherry tree in the field stays lit after dark.

Creamy blossom spilt on frozen

ground. The hawthorn came prematurely. The whole world blooms

Old Jaguar parked under apple blossom tree becomes snow leopard.

Constellations bloom in orchards of April skies the stars blossomise