β more than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree , more than the neighborβs almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving , their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of spring rains , itβs the greening of the trees that really gets to me . when all the shock of white & taffy , the worldβs baubles & 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 , iβll take it , the tree seems to say , a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm β
β iβll take it all .
