Blossoms

Today, Sunday, I am all right.
Walking the cliffs by the old estates,
I think the lime trees seem less worried
with winter, its basket of less and less.
Grapevines climb a whitewashed pergola
forgetting the month’s cold.
And after all the afternoons
shut in with work, it doesn’t matter
that I have these tattered sleeves
or that the dust along the orchard paths
dances up to me like an old friend.
Because the sand-colored birds
are ramshackle at the feather
and still get away
to the salt and pepper rocks at the point.
Because the mussels which divide out
have a heart untied form their bones.
Because riches fall
even to the least of us.