God as Redbud
The spring pink fog of simple ghosts
like hosts of harmonizing choruses,
their low strummed alto sostenuto
revives and revives and revives
along the highway, this stepping forward sprightly lithesome line
nothing like bright dogwood sopranos,
but a whispered tonal wayward zone,
a wily tribe, their every twig singing
with tremulous, tiny buds,
each bud the size of a thrumming
ruby-throated hummingbird’s heart.
Sometimes there is such joy for no reason.