In­struc­tions On Not Giv­ing Up

Poets and Writers - - Q & A -

More than the fuch­sia fun­nels break­ing out of the crabap­ple tree, more than the neigh­bor’s al­most-ob­scene dis­play of cherry limbs shov­ing their cot­ton candy–col­ored blos­soms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the green­ing of the trees that re­ally gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trin­kets, leave the pave­ment strewn with the con­fetti of af­ter­math, the leaves come. Pa­tient, plod­ding, a green skin grow­ing over what­ever win­ter did to us, a re­turn to the strange idea of con­tin­u­ous liv­ing de­spite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf un­furl­ing like a fist, I’ll take it all.

From The Car­ry­ing by Ada Limón, pub­lished by Milk­weed Edi­tions. Copy­right © 2018 by Ada Limón.

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