Counting the Blossoms On My Tree

My coffee was cold, my wallet was slim,
It all looked so very sad to me.
So I went outside to the end of the garden,
And counted the blossoms on my tree.

With colors rich for the hummingbirds,
No blossom there was exactly the same.
I treasured each as I counted them,
And to each one, I gave a name.

For in my life, these blossoms grew,
People, places and memories.
They grew in my heart like the sweet miracles.
That grew in my garden on my tree.

No matter the clime, the cause or the curse,
Or life's rough stones that are thrown at me,
It's just a short walk down the garden path,
Where I can find a lovely tree.

I'll sit in its shade, I'll roll in Fall's leaves,
I'll watch the snow gather with serenity,
And when Spring comes to my garden fair,
I'll go count the blossoms on my tree.

Robin Westbrook (c) 01/01/2011

This year is a blank slate, with 364 days of possibilities for ourselves and our causes. I don't make resolutions like most do. I just remind myself, on the first of each year, to hope and to care and to try to learn. This is my 65th New Year. I have seen over a half century of rapid change and horrors and tragedies. I have also seen heroism of the best kind, watched people learn the importance of being able to laugh at and with themselves, and found that age brings, not so much wisdom, as an increase in perspicacity.

I don't know where we will be with our search for acknowledgement and justice this time next year or if it will even advance very much. But one of the blossoms on my tree is the deep and abiding knowledge of the righteousness of our cause. I no longer have to justify it to anyone.

And that, in and of itself, is progress.