As I walk the streets, I discover blossom abounding everywhere.
Blossoming branches are painting the sky like fluffy brushes.
Blossom is frothing out of bushes and on to the pavement
sending its fragrance into the air and attracting a myriad of bees
Like spring snow it covers every twig and branch in a riotous celebration of life
Joyful, abundant flowering wherever I go.
Blossom. What a beautiful word. It goes back to Old English ‘blostma’ and seems to carry within it an explosion of life. I looked up some blossom poems, but the poets (John Donne, Shakespeare . . . ) see blossoms as an occasion to mourn the ephemeral nature of life. And so I offer this line from Hafiz, which reflects my blossom–pleasure more accurately: