We forgive once we give up attachment to our wounds.

Lewis Hyde, The Gift

How do you forgive a gift?

After the storm I walk along the road, scattered

branches from so many winter storms have me hopping.

I look up to the shattered, crudely broken parent branches above my head

I hear,”what a mess,” and my heart

feels the tremble of the lost limbs.

No one put them to it. No one told them to grow.

No one told the wind, the snow to come.

Mercy in the stirring of the flesh, the sap.

The trees’ equanimity, their branches ready to leaf, bear fruit, be.

They don’t look to the end, they see only the next moment

in the light, in the dark, of the earth.

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