The tree

The tree remains a figure for grief. 
                             —Louise Glück

February, your death, then April, 
the tree a dazzling pool of pink 
where I fish for remembrance— 
just last year, and the year before, 
we two saying, again and again, 
Look! wonder rendering us 
inelegant, nearly dumb. (But what 
did it matter, the blossoms spoke 
in our place.) We shared the view, 
the praise, all belonged to us both, 
and now, no less marvelous, it’s 
mine alone. By May, the tree is 
wholly green, still radiant, still 
fine, green the color God must 
love, breezes astir within it as 
breath, but shade forming deep 
in summer foliage, the seasonal 
relentlessness, anticipation of 
orange and gold in fall—and, 
skulking behind, the bitter cold, 
with a skeleton tree, emptied.