A poem by Denise Levertov in Poets.org:
Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink—
a delicate abundance. They seemedlike guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year’s events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken hearteven against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed—again, again—in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glareof evil days.
Read the rest here.