Annapolis Valley in Bloom

The orchards wake before the house is stirred,

Before the ridge lets go of lingering frost.

By dawn the branches, spare as winter bones,

Are filmed with white the night has breathed upon.

It happens row by row without a sound—

A quiet brightening along the slope,

As if the Valley loosed a careful sigh

And let it settle, petaled, in the light.

The bees come early, diligent and sure,

To read the fragile script from bloom to bloom.

Below, the grass remembers colder days;

Above, the trees risk everything at once.

A wind could scatter what the roots have planned,

Undo in hours what months of dark prepared.

Yet still the orchards open to the sky,

Lavish against the thought of one more frost.

I walk between them, breathing in their hush,

And feel some guarded thing in me give way.

For here, where tides turn twice and weather shifts,

Spring is a faith that blossoms knowing loss.