01/22/2022
More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree,
more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains,
it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me.
When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come.
Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty.
Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.
Ada Limón, Instructions on Not Giving Up
