A tree grows on the Upper East Side. NYC. Palm Sunday. 2011.
The Lord has risen.
And I got out of bed feeling spring! Petaled branches pull blue to this tree as I look up. I feel like putting on a dress of pink or lavender or yellow. Where is my basket? And the eggs that I dyed? I can almost taste the daiquiris that my parents would blend for brunch. Pale green and tangy. It was a frozen treat that even those in patent and ruffles got to taste.
I spent last evening going into a letter box that has been left alone for a long time ... resurrection? But life is not born of this exercise. Roots do not push up a bud or sprout. Love is not brought back to life. My beloved has not risen. Why does my heart look for you in spring? That tree above was not dead through the many months of snow and wind and storm. It was quiet. Dormant. And that blue sky. That warmth that the brilliancy of the blue connotes, pulls it back to life. But is it the same tree? Or has it changed in its cycle of life to death to life? It is born again. Though taller or broader or broken, it is resurrected. The love written in those letters is finite. It has ended. But their spirit comes to me and I feel loved. I feel more loved that when I read them first. How can that be? I read them with eyes that have seen cycles. Eyes that have been amazed by blue sky and soft petals every spring. I dare to turn away and take that love ... somewhere else.
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