The Apple Tree

The Apple Tree

Just a few weeks ago,

I was writing a poem about the old apple tree in our side yard.

The tree was naked then, austere,

with no signs of emerging life

And who could blame it, the world so cold and grey;

not yet done with winter.

But here we are on your birthday,

the last day of May.

The earth has tilted toward the sun,

beckoning tulips to unfold in chromatic ranks.

And by the way, have you seen what has happened to the old apple tree?

Have you noticed that it has become young again?

While we have been busy raising dust in the ten directions

and fretting for the future,

The old tree has become new.

New, but even better than new.

I don’t know,

What would you call it when something explodes into blossoms?

Pale, pink, wet blossoms.

And without a single thought about what it has accomplished,

It offers itself completely-

-and this is the miracle-

To nothing in particular

To nothing we can name

To nothing we can know.

To the birds, maybe,

who populate its crooked branches

and sing like there’s no tomorrow.