Beauty
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The old man stumbles, breaking off a spray
Of spring-tree flowers while trying not to fall.
Pain grimaces his eyes. The blossoms’ sway
To doom brings on a pregnant petaled drawl
Of fragrance, brings it to his nose. The stem
He tore away is held by him without
His noticing. His flailing crushes them,
These plum tree flowers. Their petals do not pout.
Instead they send perfume across the March-time air.
They never will produce their autumn fruit
But still they squander fragrance on that pair
Of old-man nostrils. Gentle as a lute
In April mornings they play out their breath
To him as if spring moonlight shines from death.
~ Phillip Whidden