Redbud

Redbud

I measure my years from bud to bud

and bloom to bloom to sudden blossoming

of the Redbud trees in my front yard.

Every March they awaken to the sun,

and something in me, too,

squeezes the root sap and begins to move

it up my spine to its perennial bloom.

This winter has been

a lingering liminality.

My hands were bare branches,

one like Plato pointing up

to the confused heavens,

the other down like Aristotle

to the frozen ground.

The Rebuds in the yard,

they looked so frail all winter.

Yet they withstood the ice

when it coated their hands,

and they weathered

storm after storm after...

Now their buds have opened

to blossoms, as I knew they would.

Yet knowing and believing

are not the same thing,

so always I laugh at such a lark

that what’s true of them

is also true of me.

My arms reach up,

my toes dig down,

and bud by bud,

bloom by bloom,

I blossom yet again.

Should I ever again

be surprised by Spring

when the bud is always

inside of me, not hoping,

nor waiting, but expecting,

sensing when winter

is yet here,

and when the Earth

begins to lean into the sun.

First the sprouts appear,

then buds holding themselves

together as though still shivering

from the cool March air,

then I unfold myself,

open myself,

spread myself out

to warm in the welcoming sun

among a riot of songs and sighs,

singing to myself that I am yet alive.