So it’s April again. The trees
all hue and shape of green—green light, dark green
leaves, blue green, yellow green, feathery,
pointillist, budded and bud broken open.
Each tree has, wants its green. And although
my sister has been dead three years, it’s
a good thing trees turn green each April,
relentless, unstoppable. It is as if even the great hole
in the earth could green up, the one that swallows
everything—terror, abiding love.
So a tree turns green,
green and green and green. Then there’s the shade.
I will not let go of that, the shadow under the tree,
dark, deep, forgiving in all that green.
Forgiven. That’s what I meant, forgiven.