I first read the below poem in 2019, during the first year of my creative writing degree. It made a deep impression on me, and I'm reminded of it every springtime when the cherry trees in our neighbour's garden burst into blossom.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A Shropshire Lad 2: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now by A.E. Housman
Our neighbour's cherry trees are large and hang over our garden. Each year, their beautiful blossoms fall like confetti. Likewise, in the summer, the fruit drops onto our side of the fence, and a number of our own cherry trees are shooting up.
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These trees host so much life. In the spring, the canopy buzzes, as a variety of pollinators float around the white blossoms. Today, for the first time, I noticed blue tits eating pollen from the flowers. I didn't know they did that! Later in the year, when the blossom has become fruit, the canopy again fills with a range of birds, primarily black birds, and bright red juice rains down from their feasting.
In truth, we can never know how many more springs we will see, how many more blooms along the boughs. So I try to cherish each one.
