You Are No Druid

As you sit cross-legged under the pear blossoms, do not count the seasons their ancestors have bloomed there. The druids built stone calculators to count the seasons; the pear blossoms bloomed away from their craggy math for centuries after. Do not offend the pear blossoms so early in your sitting. First, close your eyes. Lift your arms into the sunlight after you have escaped your sleeves. Warm your blood. Turn your hands toward your face. Kiss each of your fingertips. Press your blessed fingers into your still-closed eyes until the black-pink-orange-yellow swirl-burn seeps slowly to the back of your brain. Bend your head to the ground and kiss the cool dirt in thanks. Settle your arms. Open your eyes. Allow the sight of the pear blossoms, sturdy and seeded, to recover your gaze. If the breeze does not scold you, does not mockingly whiz past your ears, the pear blossoms are pleased with your offering. You may now whisper of winter to their roots and understand bare branches. You may think of numbers; leave them unspoken but draw their shapes in the warming dirt. The pear blossoms will read your pictures and know that you are earnest, that you are no druid.