Journal Scraps: Some writing from last spring.

April 27. I walked our small lawn to the edge of the woods this morning feeling calm and tired, hurting enough to make me slow and careful but not enough to stop me from making the journey. There on the border I placed my hands on the bark of a young tree, possibly an ash or a beech—too young for me to tell without its leaves. Then, looking farther into the woods, I startled: What is that? Confused for a moment, I stepped forward, looked more carefully, and realized Larry had tossed the bouquet of tulips gone-by, here, against the ash-heap. The petals had shriveled or blown away, but the large leaves had remained and turned bright pink.  Their gracious curves now looked like petals fallen from a giant flower somewhere high above, which I could not make out, as my neck and upper back do not like long gazing skyward.