In the ground a year now, our little apricot tree has seen its share of weather. From its simple beginning as a stick in the mud with a few roots to hold it down, it made good progress during its first summer, and, growing late into the fall, it needed several frosts to persuade it to let go of its yellowed leaves. Then came rain, hail, and snow. It has three main branches now, each thicker than the trunk itself when it was first planted. Each branch and twig is lined with buds, still closed. It has been a cold winter. I wonder what else it knows. That I’ve been reading the long slow journal of Thoreau, or only that it’s surrounded by a wealth of manure and other poems?
March 2, twenty-nine degrees, before dawn
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