by the kitchen window,
 an old apron set to dry on the black 
 boughs of an ancient cherry tree.
  
 Here and there flowered fabric 
 petal-thin
 from many years
 of flour-handed use.
  
 So worn that as the wind lifts it,
 the May sun shines through.
  
 Earlier, as I hung the apron, 
 there was a race
 between the ants and aphids 
 for the quickest path across
 the rain-corrupted limbs 
 toward the few and token blossoms.
  
 A dapper orchard beetle hissed 
 and waited as I finished my chore.
  
 And now, both apron and blossom radiate
 the morning light, 
 another generosity, 
 a small domestic beatitude,
 that one cannot not help but become as one does.