the promise of the bud
an inch and a half of sleet
whitens what it can of the ground:
leaves, sticks, dried grasses
clutter a view that isn't the soft white of snow,
sun, and above freezing temperatures today,
have released the thick icy varnish from branch and trunk,
I sit outside and study the pink dogwood's lines against the sky,
all so spartan and as if drawn in sketching lines
that maximize how to fill the space they have earned,
at the tip of many branches a spherical bud
waits patiently and asserts its promise,
within it, in some alchemical magic, awaits a transformation
that should happen three months from now,
when potential exuberantly releases itself,
when leaves erupt all over the tree
to capture the light and the energy
that allow gratuitous beauty to emerge,
flowers to celebrate a new season,
the world I want to know is all about awe,
I love to see it become itself and dazzle us,
how also good it is to see it full, but awaiting its time,
as an educator, I saw the tight buds of my students,
and I reveled in the opening and expressing of their promise.
by Henry H. Walker
January 26, ‘25
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