More than the fuchsia funnels breaking outof the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’salmost obscene display of cherry limbs shovingtheir cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slatesky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the treesthat really gets to me. When all the shock of whiteand taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leavethe pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skingrowing over whatever winter did to us, a returnto the strange idea of continuous living despitethe mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leafunfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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