Spring is the cruelest time
to die, I used to think—
just as winter rolls up its
gray quilt and lifts off,

as the skeletons of trees
hold the hope of green,
some even budding into
early pink laughter
under warm sun.

The departed miss all this—
the earth unfurling her
best self just when we
need to see it.

Stepping outside this morning
to see over the driveway
the tiniest bits of purple
cascade off the trellis
reminds me that spring arrives
on time for those left behind,

those who look up,
who notice color again
where only yesterday
there was none.