Of Apple Blossom and Orthodera novaezealandia

Is it a sign of senility

or maturity

that I don’t notice

the helicopter flying low

because I am absorbed

in the apple blossoms,

in how the pink buds

of the eating apple

are so much softer

than the vibrant red

of those of the cooking apple;

and that the old barn

is of interest

not because of people

and possible adventures

but because

of the praying mantis nymphs

struggling

to escape their egg case,

and the spider’s web

threaded across it?