Here in February, the fine <br />dark branches of the almond <br />begin to sprout tiny clusters <br />of leaves, sticky to the touch. <br />Not far off, about the length <br />of my morning shadow, the grass <br />is littered with the petals <br />of the plum that less than <br />a week ago blazed, a living <br />candle in the hand of earth. <br />I was living far off two years <br />ago, fifteen floors above <br />119th Street when I heard <br />a love of my young manhood <br />had died mysteriously in <br />a public ward. I did not <br />go out into the streets to <br />walk among the cold, sullen <br />poor of Harlem, I did not <br />turn toward the filthy window <br />to question a distant pale sky. <br />I did not do anything. <br />The grass is coming back, some <br />patches already bright, though <br />at this hour still silvered <br />with dew. By noon I can stand <br />sweating in the free air, spading <br />the difficult clay for the bare <br />roots of a pear or apple that <br />will give flower and fruit longer <br />than I care to think about.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bitterness/
