For three nights in a row, the storms came
and on the last, a strike
of lightening –
a powerful split
down the branch
and it fell to the ground
like an open hand falls
on the battlefield.
It fell in the late winter rains
when the branch was still bare.
No one imagines a future for
the fallen, not deep pink petals,
bright and defiant on a roadside.
But there in the morning,
a joy of redbuds sprang up
where it shouldn’t – not in the sky,
not in the canopy where we think the deserved live.
But here on the ground, near the dirt –
Even with damage and death is nearer, something can still bloom.