April 7 – A Poem by Ada Limón

Instructions on Not Giving Up

by Ada Limón

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

2 thoughts on “April 7 – A Poem by Ada Limón

  1. Linda Stover

    Loud fuming,
    hate spewing
    Circles of logic,
    never-ending
    Black holes with
    no light in sight
    One small spark
    can ignite
    Can we listen
    if we have no sight?
    Hearts, minds, souls
    Unite

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *