A white blossom, purpled
at the edges like penance,
lies under an unbloomed tree.
Maybe a bee got greedy, then
dropped the petals amid ascension,
demi-god wary of nectar’s nature.
Then it’s time for a world bared.
Fallen leaves prefer to congregate,
crowding curbs and gutters like
repentant sinners alongside a river.
This appears in the June 2019 issue of Sojourners
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