I hope I see black locust blossoms again
In the spring when showers come.
I know they will be back.
They’re leaving now, withering, fading, their color spent.
I think I’ll probably be here, too.
One never knows.
Of course they’ll come again,
Their pendant blooms fresh,
Glowing quietly in the new foliage,
Hanging in their tall trees
Against the pale, spring sky.
I wonder if bees like them?
I know they must.
I think it’s their modesty that I like best,
And the knowledge
That they could put on quite a show
If they wanted.
But they don’t.
—
Harold Bishop grew up on an Illinois farm. He survived alone in the Washington wilderness for a year. He worked in the construction trades and taught school, and he lives in Seattle, Washington.
