April

In what can only be called an explosion of life, the trees along 117 between Maynard and Lincoln have blossomed. Flowers everywhere. Green whisps on the oaks, proud white pedals of the dogwood. Red flowering of maple. From the barren Earth, green pedals and flowers filling in the gaps, the fragile light green first layered baby leaf poking out into the warm night air. What information turns this cycle? Light certainly, but temperature must as well. Can the trees count the number of frost-free evenings? This blossoming happened everywhere, all at once. Something shared. These past three days, these past three weeks, something in common. Do we feel it ourselves too?

I have intentionally kept the radio and television and newspaper off. I am full of clutter from the past and haven't the room. It's selfish. The less I think of them, the less harm they can do. It's the thought, the habit of the American way, but not the reality. Conscience knows different. The dogwoods showing their prowess, millions of individual plants at once sending forth the gentle offering of new leaf matter, these are the habits we should know. I would beg them to end this war, but that would only bring them joy. So, I merely point out their disharmonic patterns of logic. And I pray for open eyes.