The Bradford Pear is in full bloom now,
thirty feet of boughs and branches
covered with false promises,
white as heaven, each blossom a little lie:
there will be no fruit.
This tree is made for beauty,
a herald of spring,
a fling of scent and sight
without the slightest offering of sustenance.
Across the drive,
the two tiny peach trees
are also ripe with color,
buds opened into blossom,
declaring their presence and purpose.
Absent the interference of sufficient evil,
these small branches will bow to earth
under the weight of their fruit,
yielded and yielding
to the delight of harvest.
We were not redeemed for seeming beauty
but rather for bearing nourishing fruit,
rooted in faith and living in the world,
yet not of the world.