Mid February and
 the almond tree
 across the road,
 graces the apartment block
 in a bridal pink cloud
 against
 the somber green of pines,
 trusting
 that the sun shall shine
 and the tiny flies
 shall come and drink
 the bitter almond nectar,
 that the wind will not
 scatter the blossoms,
 the frost will not
 burn and wither them,
 till the kernel is set;
 it simply blossomed
 into a symphony of beauty.
 Drink that in large draughts.