The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
Thank you for all of your comments and kind thoughts yesterday; they are much appreciated. Last month was National Poetry Month, and while I didn't post anything specific about it here on the blog, I spent the month reading a couple of different poetry collections, one of which I'll review in the upcoming weeks. When I took them back to the library today at lunch, I came across another poetry anthology on the shelf of new arrivals: The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing. It felt very right to check it out, and flipping through it as I finished my lunch, I found the poem above, and it just seemed like such a fitting way to follow yesterday's post.
