Last barren year weighed no branches down held no solid pear-flesh (softening to succulence) to curve and tangle elongation.
It offers up these earliest to the sun, the very tips bedecked.
A subtle sweetness drifts and falls, in the dormouse breeze, to me.
A fierce sun's vaulted in clear indigo* - bright the cuts of whispered, far jets rift, break, snake, dissolve in minutes, leave not a smudge of haze.
I'm glad for every mile light waves (the ceilidh dance of its twinned fields) through no ether but by its bootstraps, rectilinear (gravity bent) cancelling Feynman possibilities, timelessly (in itself), as Einstein proved photons do not age, remain
as new as the first light hurled through rifts of that cosmic expansion - as now indeed our little sun spreads wide his rays past Mercury to river lead where Venus boils up its own acidic air and thus to us, a tiny fraction of an eight light-minute sphere.
Little I bother where the most of all that prodigious energy is poured away.
Heat space dust, do and be a feeble yellow star where clever Varn, surveys the shadowing spectrum of our own blue marble world:
"Mm. Oxygen. Not good, Xobba." A shake of protuberance, and a swift wallow in ferric salts, the better to respire.
There's a sandman in the sun for daydream summers - fires the lazy rambling of imagination - that's the trick.
Next door's baby's well engardened being tickled in buggy by Mummy and "Da-da-da." beneath the blackbird's sweet flute riffs.
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Suddenly anxious for my blossoming pear I check the garden back. It's full of flying dots, and hover-flies are stationed silently, convincing no one that they 'be a bee' - but that will have to do, for now.
Today, sits here, an aging man in his heaven; and when he toddles back to fill his cup, corridors of dandelions grin at him.
