buds

I'd swear we didn't see them until March last year
But here they are, unmistakable
A dark new pink like
First-fruits
This first weekend of February.

We are going out
The front door tonight,
Which is rare enough in itself
And carries a good omen in the still-bright dusk
Of a still winter evening.

I stop short and my breath
Catches in my throat, holds there
He follows my eyes,
"I guess that tree is not dead after all,"
He says.

We should have trimmed it last Spring
We should have cut it down last Summer
When it disowned its limbs, littering
Broken bark and lichen
And bits of moss.

Just last week I thought it might fall down
Altogether.

And now
It is February. It is cold.
It may yet snow.

But tonight I see the tiniest buds of cherry blossoms on a tree that was dead to me.