The tree stays a determine for grief. —Louise Glück
February, your demise, then April, the tree a stunning pool of pink the place I fish for remembrance— simply final 12 months, and the 12 months earlier than, we two saying, repeatedly, Look! surprise rendering us inelegant, practically dumb. (However what did it matter, the blossoms spoke in our place.) We shared the view, the reward, all belonged to us each, and now, no much less marvelous, it’s mine alone. By Could, the tree is wholly inexperienced, nonetheless radiant, nonetheless effective, inexperienced the colour God should love, breezes astir inside it as breath, however shade forming deep in summer time foliage, the seasonal relentlessness, anticipation of orange and gold in fall—and, skulking behind, the bitter chilly, with a skeleton tree, emptied.
