On the Redbud’s Return

A redbud does a wrong thing beautifully.

Bloom comes straight off the bark,

off the trunk itself, off wood

three inches thick and twenty years old,

as if the tree ran out of patience

and decided the branch could wait.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Every April it does this.

Every April you are startled

as if you had forgotten what was coming,

as if a whole winter of knowing

could still leave you

ambushed on Culven Creek Road, window down.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

My father pulled over once

on the curve above the old Shelton place.

Sat looking up the holler a long time.

Said nothing. Put the truck in gear.

Some things a man will carry

because talking would make them smaller.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Two weeks. That is all they hold.

Then green comes and takes the ridge back

and you would never know

what stood here, what that color did

to the dark below the oaks,

how it settled something that had been loose all winter.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Cercis canadensis. Judas tree

in the old country, blamed

for the extravagance of returning

before it has earned a single leaf.

Here we call it redbud.

Here we pull over, and look, and go on.