Redbuds

He didn't get us blowed up—he fished! I don't fish anymore. If some experienced A.T.F. man takes a dangerously long time to fish, I'm afraid I'll lose more than two fingers like Grandpa did. My cousin will be angry with me again. He doesn't understand why a writer's politics should interfere with his family's fishing. The A.T.F. don't understand—dynamite don't kill people—guns do. Now a license is required to get access to fishing "supplies" regularly. Another fishing story not for Field and Stream—another delusion— when the psychiatrist examines me again. Redbuds Redbuds edge the field Just above the leaf-filled spring Soft pastel with brown. Around the road's curve Florescent lavender against Bleached sycamore bones. Vases of redbud Elegant spring recompense For snowstorm wreckage. On Narrow Gap Road Faded lavender dances With shiny young green. By the muddy footpath Winding through fire-charred woods Emerging redbud shoot. Dark limbs of redbud Bow after the morning rain Silver glistens on green. —Barbara Wade 63 ...