The plum tree in my yard, it can be seen from my window. I bear witness to the seasons it lives. In the warmth of new spring the delicate green buds uncurl. With enough sun the tree will bloom, it will grow, it will be strong and beautiful. Barely-there blossoms extend towards the light. If they can reach the warmth they will explode into a plethora of fruit. Prosperous and alive and steadfast. But the plum tree is rooted in my yard, and my yard is set in my town, and my town dwells in this state. Here rain pours from the angry sky, a frightening and spectacular grey horizon; a shadow of constrained light behind the mass of rain-burdened clouds. And the clouds cannot contain the storm, and the barely-there blossoms are not strong or beautiful yet, they cannot hold against the onslaught of the heavy rains against them. They wilt, they bow, and crumple; they are washed away. The hope carried in the blossom’s tender veins that had spread through the see-through leaves is mangled in the wind and washed away by the wet. The tree is stripped bare thin. Naked. Of success, of purpose, of beauty. The branches are etched black lines that cry against the black and white and grey background of the sky. Just a little longer, maybe a few more days in the sun, absorbing its warmth. But the plum tree is rooted in my yard. Perfectly framed by my window, is where it will remain. I cry for it. If only it could get away from the rain. But the twisted trunk’s roots extend down, down under the grass, through the wet earth. It is tangled in other roots, in this place. This is where it belongs…


… I also dream for it. Someday a seed will survive the onslaught and use the wind the storms carry. The wind will sweep it up, will sweep it away. Then, there, wherever it lands, the seed will find new soil. It will grow. It will become strong, beautiful, fruitful, alive; proud.