Not the year for crabapples

If it's not one thing... it's another.

It is not the year

For crabapples

But when crabapples

Are not in store,

Other things find their way.

The grapevine

Winds its way

Up the crabapple

To reach the sun.

The elderberry bush

Has never looked so good.

At church

There are green beans

At the door

Every time I go in.

I go in more often

These days.

It is not the year

For crabapples.

It is the year

For so many

Other things.

Other explanations

Does it matter, does it make a difference?  Of course it does.  Then the good head of steam, the righteous indignation, needs to find a hole to climb into, or perhaps a crabapple to sit under.

Does it make a difference,

He asked,

That the person you feel

Ignored you

Suffered a brain injury

A couple months after

You met for lunch

Five years ago?

Could there not be

Other factors

At play?

Of course he did.

Of course there are.

My righteous indignation

Flees

To sit under the crabapple

In the back yard.

A suitable place.

Trinity

I woke up this morning thinking about writing that owl reflection.  It is such a cool picture: three barn owls peering out of a rounded cross shaped window.  So I began.  The owls have yet to make their appearance.  Instead I remembered that breakfast with Possibility and Disappointment, and the later meeting I had with my therapist/supervisor/consultant.  Perhaps you could all hold hands, he said. Maybe you could close the circle.  

I am not on the roster

To preach

Yet every time

Trinity Sunday rolls around

I think what I might say

To clear things up

This time.

A few weeks ago now

I had breakfast with

Disappointment

And Possibility,

Just the three of us.

We all walked under the crabapple.

Possibility and I

Held Disappointment*s hands.

What if all three of you

Held hands,

Closed the circle

In the backyard

And danced?

He asked.

What if?

This morning I think

Why that would be

Perichoresis.

If we danced fast enough

No one

Could tell us apart.

Crabapple

Enjoyed the rain of pink crabapple petals the last couple days.  

The petals made

A pink pool

Under the crabapple.

Today the tree itself

Barely pink

Is instead

Dusk with a hint

Of rose

Like the sky after the sun

has set.

Black bones

Show through

The green  more of a promise

Than realization.

The fruit

Is still

a long way off.

One a day

When I think about it, everything comes one at a time: clients, flower petals, even me.  

Sometimes clients

Come

One a day.

This is a one-a-day week.

Hardly a way

To make a living,

A life,

Or maybe it is:

My life,

Anyway.

Today I watch the crabapple

Shower petals.

I prepare for my own

One-a-day conversation

At ten o’clock.

I focus on the rain

Of petals

Perhaps

The reign of petals

Falling,

My own singular

Once a month

Conversation.

Sometimes things come

Once a day

Once a month

Like clockwork.

Sometimes they pour.

Job lists

Thank God for the crabapple and redbud.  Their spring beauty will most likely be fleeting, with rain predicted over the next couple days.  I know from past years when the redbud lets loose, the sidewalk will be covered in purple buds, and I will process to the car, like a bride walking through rose petals.  It is good to know hope will be fulfilled.  Soon I may even cancel all those job listings.

Most mornings

Jobs arrive

In my inbox.

I have subscribed

To various lists.

Why I still hope for jobs

In the inbox

I don*t know.

I barely look at them

Anymore.

Still it is strangely comforting

To know there are positions

Waiting.

I wonder whether

They will be filled

By a blonde

Or perhaps by someone

With the right assortment of letters

After their name

Or maybe someone

Who has counted their hours

Exactly right.

The jobs arrive                               

In my inbox.

I barely see them anymore.

This morning the crabapple flowers

In back,

The redbud

In front.

It seems there are different things

To hope for,

Different things

To find.