Last week, the trees in the park across the way were mostly bare, as though still encased in their winter sleep.  Yesterday, I came upon this tree I pass daily; it’s sudden blossoming took my breath away.

From this morning to this afternoon, it seems, the trees have leafed mightily.  I opened The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse, the 13 century Chinese Buddhist poet, to this perfect poem:

What’s gone is already gone
and what hasn’t come needs no thought
right now I’m writing a right-now line
plums are ripe and gardenias in bloom


The New Yorker

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