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To the Freeze-Burned



As I was afraid, the freeze that always comes got these babies that jumped spring. Look at all the pics to see what these weeping redbuds look like now and before the freeze.



Good news is they are mostly all still bendy. One is definitely fighting back, already producing new shoots.



Another is about half and half. The other—nothing. Again, though, it’s still bendy.



There is a metaphor, of course. The young are full of know-it-all bravado, perhaps even jumping out in full splendor, embracing life to its fullest, shouting: Live! Live!


Those of us who’ve lived through many seasons have, of course, been “burned” —maybe even harder to survive the burn when we are given the deep-freeze treatment. When we are shocked to our core, blasted with the unexpected, rocked with a cruel, cold wind.


And yet, many of us survive. We close off, pull back, hide in the corner, lick our wounds. Maybe for a short time, maybe longer, a season, or two. We change. We never look the same again. We bare the scars.


But then one day, we peep our heads out. We chance to be seen, in action or word. We find our footing. And without realizing it, we’ve sung, sprung, and blossomed again. We’ve survived.

They say time heals all wounds. What a falsehood. But time does make them survivable.


Here’s to the freeze-burned. The survivors. I see you. You see me. We patiently await each other to blossom again. In our own time.

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