when April comes

I cannot be expected to do

anything

 

but listen,

and watch

the world be born

 

everything is young again

exuberant

lucid

 

the birds are singing at least a dozen songs

and I’m trying to learn the notes,

to find new sounds

in my winter throat

 

the gnarled

arthritic apple tree

I had feared was dead

has finally put forth

a timid bower of pinky-white blooms

 

right at the top

right where she’s closest to the sky

 

bees come to greet her and

dance in the scant petals

they marvel

they thank her for insisting

 

I was foolish not to see the life still in her

thoughtless to fear she had nothing left to give

 

after all

she couldn’t have died,

someone I love

rests

in her roots