I’m sure that I grew up around redbud trees, but they never made an impression on me until I moved to Kentucky and was surrounded by their beauty every spring. The older I get, the more I dislike winter; it’s colorless, bleak and cold. And every spring, when the color starts to come onto the redbud branches, these are the words that come to mind, “We have not been abandoned.” The world continues to turn, the seasons still change, new life still comes – soon we’ll be surrounded again by green. Life is good. And I wrote an ode to a tree. Yay me.
how to describe a redbud?
posed beside a white dogwood,
you become fairyland.
if i stand still and watch long enough,
i’ll see you
lift satin-shod toes and dance
an airy bit of Swan Lake.
–but only in some obscure ratio of sunlight and shadow…
outside of that moment, waiting is useless.
blooming out in a Bohemian frenzy of color
putting to shame the pink dogwood
(unnatural, unfriendly pink. like someone
tried to transport Japan
but squished it into
English manor subservience.
paired with a pale weeping willow,
you are the dress that my
little hippie self wants to wear
dancing through clover
-and it’s kind of a ragamuffin look-
resting quietly beside a dark evergreen
your branches standing out black in the sunshine
and blacker in the rain
not quite blending in,
or begging for attention… merely
of the reasons
i never want to leave kentucky.