…the cherry tree has buds…mid-January, below freezing temperatures…and tiny buds have begun to form… …a long few days…today, a day to beat me down… …I don’t have my lotus to go to…so I went to the cherry tree…standing beneath and looking up…taking my armor off… … …let me bud through the biting cold…see me through to spring…blooming, bursting, thriving, flourishing… … …a tequila shot or three… …then a shovel and muscle to bring forth tomorrow… … …I should’ve heeded the rook…calling forth…under a moonless late hour… …I never heed the warning…I never heel… …too wild for streetlights and streetcars… …I’ll go naked in the walk, in the run, in the cliff side dive… …I know my home…and I intend on returning…as a dog eared probability…as a mathematical migration…as a branch of pink blossoms escaping… … …mud…ripple…exhale…
E.A. O'Connell
{Four days after writing this, I happened upon a rather fitting quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: "Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it."}
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