Reposed in the ghost of light below the dell Where brunette pine needles and thirsty oak leaves dwell, The wind hisses in the canopy Delivering dreams from the crabapple tree: The cotton white petals flutter toward my lips But brush on by with soft ginger wisps That shroud my eyes from the blinking sun, Then dusts the ground in a snow-like pollen; Ripe round blooms cup fondly in my hand, And the flesh blushes while it nears my breath. The taste revives my memory; I stand, And float to the tree which marks her death.