My Mother came up as rosy buds
On the branches of the tree
Right outside my bedroom window.
Her ashes buried in the Fall
Lay dormant under the snow of Winter
And now the tree has woken
And taken her in, with the help of the Spring rains.
She is flowing with sweet sap into the tallest branches,
and soon the mauve and rosy buds
will open into green leaves of Summer—her season.
But now, still fresh as springtime,
she looks into my window, looks in at me,
budding branches stirring softly in the wind.
Every time I glance up, I see her bright presence,
With me, now, alive in the moment.
Next year it will be different,
the tree will have flowered and moved on,
traces of her ashes diluted in the earth, dissipated gently.
But for now, Mom’s last physical presence
is the strongest it will ever be in the tangible world,
And the tree is full of joy, watching me.