After the cut

They cut down the Honey Locust tree in front of our window yesterday. Something about the root system. I was bereft watching it go, this tree with its many colors, most especially its gold raiment, that kept me company through so many seasons as I sat by the window, writing, thinking, puzzling things out. Now there is only empty air where a mature tree stood, but now I can see other trees that were hidden before, and how strange to discover their patient beauty and to realize all is not lost, the cruel cut has been made, change happens without your consent, but inspiration can live in other branches, too.

Unrelated (or perhaps not), I won't be writing here about Kyle Rittenhouse being acquitted of the murder of two men at a Black Lives Matter rally last year, because we all know how the verdict would have gone down if he had been Black or Brown instead of White, so I'll be over here taking care of my mental health, because it's not as if any of us were one bit surprised. In fact, I was on the phone with my daughter yesterday when the not guilty verdict was rendered, and her only response was a quick sardonic burst of laughter at how absurdly wrong the whole things was. I have to laugh, she told me, or I'll never stop crying.