The apple tree's the apple of my eye; as these first blossoms open, they flower through all my retrospect such clotted dreams as if no winters had ever withered by.
Inhaling this deeply-nectared sweetness, futures wing-dance in expectation's beams, yet time slow-slurs within this bough-bower savoring long moments of completeness.
No god made these. Maybe a goddess breathed some loved name through the fleeing universe that all the atoms swerved in resonance and something woke of selving consequence.
Stand, golden suns in green blade space, unsheathed,* as all the tangled curves time tells are wreathed.
............................
*The dandelionsbeneath the tree - which have reached their peak.
This is my apple blossom, opening:
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