Walking to my car this morning,

I noticed brilliant red flowers blooming on a barren tree

How had I never noticed them on this same old path?

And at winter’s dawn?

As I drew closer, my eyes shifted to find that they were leaves,

not petals.

Japanese maple, at their brilliant red end,

The few remaining, dangling

As the sun shone at the precise angle to illuminate them into blossoms.

Which fall, too.

She will hate that I’m writing about her now.

Now, at a time like this.

She said once: “Why don’t you write about something happy?”

And I had no answer to that, no words.

It felt like an accusation:

That words come only to me at heartbreak,

at grief.

They come only so that I may find my way to joy

Find my way through and

Along this slippery, morning path

Where things are not what they seem

But still beautiful.

Even now.

At a time like this.