A Death Adorned

Plucked from out the cowering sprigs huddled on the sidewalk at the Walmart,

         the little redbud shoot had promise, form,

        a single stalk that might bear buds and leaves.

It was a little Judas tree that hides and sings beneath the poplars, oaks, and cherries on our Appalachian slopes.

We took it home and dug it in the ground beneath the Chinese chestnut tree that sheds its prickly husks in sheer defiance of the blight that wiped its cousins out a hundred years ago.

And it survived the winter. Two winters. Three winters.

Its reddening buds popped out upon the bark in March, bleeding over branches bare, followed by the purple leaves that turned to green beneath the summer sun.

We pruned its errant branches, training it to reach above our heads, ready for another showy spring.

But this year’s March saw a hesitation in its early buds, a shriveled leaf in April’s sun, bare limbs in May.

June found its cracked bark lifeless, dry beneath the solstice sun.

But the form, the ribs, the skeleton, still spoke in supplication.

And so we hung a brightly turning ornament among its limbs. And then a spinning sun catcher. And then a glassy orb.

Soon it was sparkling with a beauty buds could not reveal.

The glinting sunspecks pranced around the neighboring trees and shrubs.

Now adorned with dancing mirrors of another life,

       it stands renewed,

           reflections of a greater grace.