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The trees are coming into leaf like something almost being said; the recent buds relax and spread, their greenness is a kind of grief. is it that they are born again and we grow old? no, they die too. their yearly trick of looking new is written down in rings of grain. yet still the unresting castles thresh in fullgrown thickness every may. last year is dead, they seem to say, begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
-Philip Larkin
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The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like

Philip Larkin
The trees are coming into leaf like something almost being said; the recent buds relax and spread, their greenness is a kind of grief. is it that they are born again and we grow old? no, they die too. their yearly trick of looking new is written down in rings of grain. yet still the unresting castles thresh in fullgrown thickness every may. last year is dead, they seem to say, begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
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Grief Years Tree

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Learn what not to expect. irish catholic they get sh**** little rings. irish women get crappy rings. baptist get the worst because they get the rings under water. when it comes up, it's garbage. jewish, big rings. episcopalian big rings. italians-the best, because they get them off of dead people, and second wives get the biggest rings of all.
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'ever seen a leaf - a leaf from a tree?' 'yes.' i saw one recently - a yellow one, a little green, wilted at the edges. blown by the wind. when i was a little boy, i used to shut my eyes in winter and imagine a green leaf, with veins on it, and the sun shining ...' 'what's this - an allegory?' "no; why? not an allegory - a leaf, just a leaf. a leaf is good. everything's good.'
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From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…it was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. what? how? why? this singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. the rose of the world was breathing out smell. it followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.
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The word was born in the blood, grew in the dark body, beating, and took flight through the lips and the mouth. farther away and nearer still, still it came from dead fathers and from wondering races, from lands which had turned to stone, lands weary of their poor tribes, for when grief took to the roads the people set out and arrived and married new land and water to grow their words again. and so this is the inheritance; this is the wavelength which connects us with dead men and the dawning of new beings not yet come to light.
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We live, we die, and like the grass and trees, renew ourselves from the soft earth of the grave. stones crumble and decay, faiths grow old and they are forgotten, but new beliefs are born. the faith of the villages is dust now... but it will grow again... like the trees.
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