by Christopher Cunningham

The dogwood whispers
into bloom, white cross blossoms
pronounced in a hush,

words chosen with care.
Where the pear and cherry gush
in loquacious snow –

falls of profusion,
the dogwood, reticent, spare,
says this, and this, and

now that, and just so
– a haiku poet, black-barked,
slender-curved, meting,

out blood-tipped bracts – not
blooms – like syllables. Outside
my window today

before dawn, our tree’s
sparse stanzas of white glow blue,
like December’s snow

at dusk. In this light,
they seem to float, a flutter
of shimmering moths

drawn to the wrought black
splay of twig and limb. A breeze
touches the branches,

and the tree fractures
into jostling planes of light,

shifting silences.

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