Poetry by John Kenna. Permission has been granted by "Cousin John" to post his poetry here.
In the night my flowering apple tree has been changed, has become an angel
dressed in a pink so fine no tongue can lie about it. Maybe it's the hue of truth
or the stuff of the soul. Her blooms stop all my words. A dusky fall of magenta
petals scatter from her limbs like hundreds of cerise birds. As she spreads her
wings to fly, they land on the grass just coming up from winter's lengthy doze.
She speaks an unknown language to the moon. Around her roots the very void
crouches inside itself and begins to brighten into a beauty that comes right up
to my eyes and stops. It is too large to come inside me, too glorious for my
all too human dark, and I must turn and go back down the dusty mountain.