by Theodora Goss
Take a crabapple tree
in spring, white with blossoms.
Take it in the early morning,
while all the birds in the elms
are dropping their notes on the front porch,
and the white moths are still fluttering
against the windows. While the ancient house
is dreaming its wooden dreams.
It will smell like nothing else on Earth.
Take it with a glass of water.
Swallow it down: the blossoms and their scent,
the white moths casting shadows on the floor,
the memory of the moon as she turned her pocked face
toward you the night before, the dark night
that followed. The clear light
of morning. And the crabapple tree,
even if its branches stick in your throat.
Soon, not immediately, you will begin
to feel better.
(The image is Apple Trees in Flower by Ernest Quost.)