has bloomed again this spring, just as sweetly

as she did when she was young.

I see no signs of regret or nostalgia for years

gone by, but I know that she is counting,

ring by ring, as am I.

We wired the splintered trunk so long ago

that we can no longer find the scars.

Robins have made a claim

in the canopy, and squirrels are already

practicing their reach. I want to ask

how long the years can hold,

when the fruit will become more than

she can bear, but she has no time for me.

She has new blossoms

to attend to, fragile as baby’s breath,

and Spring is still the bravest

season of the year.