Not One Blossom

So far I've said nothing this morning.
I am listening to the sounds of new sun,
wind dancing through excited trees,
each sparrow's flirting song, the voice
of blue sky whispering to its earthly
counterpart. A vehicle of memory, one small
bee deliberatly searches white corners,
sandy ceilings, a wooden chair he must think
of as tree. All his work and not one blossom.

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