The blossom comes
after weeks of empty gray days.
Its gestation was unknown to us.
We did not think the soil capable
of such transfiguration,
or the gray dead branch clever enough
to make a hole that bled
such beauty of form and color and fragrance.
We were impatient we
broke the twig ourselves and looked –
but the object of our longing
could not be seen. It grew
in an hour when we swept the house
to find a coin. When we turned back
to the dull plant
it was covered in impossible joy.

Featured Photo by Suzanne Gill