It’s springtime. The apple tree limb
still lies where it fell
last winter.
Mostly forgotten, given up for dead,
we’ll chip it when we have the time –
Too many other pressing things to do
in the garden this time of year.
But I pass it today, and pause.
There are leaves on the ends of
the twigs, blossoms stubbornly
sapping the stored life force from the limb,
disbelieving in death,
wanting so much just to bloom and bear fruit.
And I can’t help but wonder,
will I be like that when I die?
Stubbornly insisting
I still have life force in me,
raising my hands in frantic gesture to the living:
Wait, I’m still here, can’t you see me?
They will bury me regardless,
soil and water and stone will be
just enough to keep my memory alive.
But come springtime, I’ll show them.
I’ll be right there beneath the soil,
giving the daisies a leg up
into the light.
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