It rains in the apple trees
Where three crows land
In a dome of blossoms—
I watch with my clear head
The way blind people do
Feathers wet leaves
Bird’s feet
Scratching boughs
I like the one who doesn’t speak
She’s perfect—
The unlit candle in a church
Green sorrow
Is a waste
Do not seek comfort
From others; nor music
Breathe against a window
Write your name
Planet of the Blind 