Our final dogwood leans
over the forest floor
to the birds, the squirrels.
It’s a relic
of the days when dogwoods
flourished—creamy lace in April,
spilled milk in May—
their beauty delicate
When I took for granted
that the world would remain
as it was, and I
would remain with it.
~Linda Pastan “Elegy”
The inevitable change of the seasons, as portrayed by the branches of our aging pink dogwood tree, is a reminder nothing stays the same.
Like this old tree, I lean over more, I have a few bare branches with no leaves, I have my share of broken limbs, I have my share of blight and curl.
Yet each stage and transition has its own beauty: a breathtaking depth of color flourishes on what once was bare.
Nothing is to be taken for granted. Nothing remains as it was.
Especially me. Oh, especially me.