It is April now, and the old apple tree
Is all in flower again, dizzy
Swirl of white and blush of pink
Seeming as pleased, as bold, as shy
As a girl at her quinceañera
In the fire, this apple tree burned
Later, in the cleaning up, it was cut down
On this soft spring day, I visit its stump
But it is the tree I see before me
Blossoming beside the river of years
Resurrections happen every day
The lost ones return─not to themselves
But to us, the ones who loved them
And in this gaunt burned forest, in this apple tree
The birds still sing to me
Grey Sparrow Journal 