By Michelle Webster-Hein

February 11, 2014


Today, weary of traffic, I took the back roads home. Now is the season of every green imaginable--the wet emerald of grass, the pale lime of newly broken buds, the chartreuse shock of fresh algae, the midnight fir of country lakes.

When we die we don’t seem half as dead as the weeping willow that hung naked and desolate over our neighbor’s sidewalk all winter long--the same willow that just this evening brushed my shoulder with its green-petaled fingers.

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