I keep remembering that this time of suffering
is also many people’s first spring. They’re seeing
startling greens wave at them from the trees,
and purples bright as toys pushing up plush
from the dirt. Some are learning to walk on
stubbled grass and feeling its tickling insistence
while the grass feels that seeped flattening
as the inevitable revelation of what has been
and will be again. They hear the chips and chirrups
of birds and do not miss the noise of traffic, school
buzzers, children squealing on the playgrounds.
They do not know those slides and swings
are not always wrapped in these yellow ribbons snapping
at the wind. Everything’s new and simply true,
like the wrinkled gray branches that pulse to bud
then blossom with stars thin as tissue. They will
not remember this as a time of darkening.
It will just be a story people tell sometimes.
How the losses and hollows of what could not
be stopped made the flowers seem brighter
that spring, more necessary in their beauty.