Oh, it\'s not just the shocking pinks and purples erupting from the crabapple tree, or the unashamed exhibition of the cherry branches with their sugary blossoms up in arms against the brooding sky to announce spring\'s arrival, no, it\'s something quieter that captures my fancy.
There\'s a subtlety to the way the leaves make their grand entrance, slowly, without the fanfare of petal and buds, a verdant tide slowly covering the grimy aftermath of winter’s end. They\'re like diligent workers clocking in, their green uniforms slowly draping over the bare and waiting boughs, a lesson in perseverance.
This greening, it speaks to me—whispers, really—about carrying on under the sometimes-gray dome of life. Right through the detritus of ourselves—the mistakes, the pain, the vacant places—we’re nudged by nature’s elbow to keep moving.
The tree knows its script by heart, offering up a leaf like a magician revealing a coin in their palm. “Well then,” it seems to mutter with a quiet resilience, spreading out its newest bit of handiwork for all to see, “let\'s see about taking on another season, shall we?” And with every unfurling leaf, it takes it all, everything—the hail, the rain, the days too hot to think—and still persists in green, as if to show us, in its branching wisdom, how it\'s done. (\"Don\'t Give Up\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.