Life in a seashell

The trees on my street have been blooming for a week.
Down from my living room windows, the flower clouds grow.
Soon it will snow on our sidewalks and shoppers,
cabs, and business men in expensive suits.  Petals will drift
into grocery bags and bakery bags, onto warm loaves of Jewish rye,
cold chickens, palpable, heavy, wet in white butcher paper,
Greek olives in plastic containers and tins of English tea.
They will touch the back of the petty thief as he is pushed into the police car.
When all the flowers have fallen, my windows will rest
in a basket of green leaves.  Just now, through a hole in the blooms,
I see a robin’s nest, two speckled blue eggs, and a broken bicycle.

Bill Buege