When the apple tree blooms,

the moon comes often like a blossom,

paler than any of them,

shining over the tree.
It is the ghost of the summer,

the white sister of the blossoms who returns

to drop in on us,

and radiate peace with her hands

so that you shouldn’t feel too bad when the hard times come.

For the Earth itself is a blossom, she says,

on the star tree,

pale with luminous

ocean leaves.
Rolf Jacobsen

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