Half the year we have leaves,
in Western North Carolina,
half the year we do not.

We’ve just about finished with the not part.

A week ago there was a chill hold.

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Trees of wood, trees of shadow.
Projection on the ground, not real at all,
except everyday it’s closer to blooming.

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Along Church Street, south-east forty miles, in Asheville,
an espalade of tree tops in perfect conic sections.

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There are no leaves yet.

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But the tip of every branch trembles
ready in silver or in gold.

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Bloom, any minute now.

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Any second.

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Even the ever-cautions hornbeam is at the edge.

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A few more minutes of sunlight in a day,
warmer by two or three degrees,
not just one trigger is cocked.

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The whole hillside. Ready at the tips.
Doesn’t matter if you are ready.