The first spring flower is rue, br a single stalked white bloom br I find amid the scattering br of last year's leaves and br gray trunks of catakined oaks. br br I happen on it while cutting vines, br those strangling grape tendrils, br thick as fists clenched in rage, br which throttle the life from even br the strongest, towering tree. br br My heavy blade hacks through, br spring water flows far faster than tears, br and I, not heartless, feel the loss, br knowing all the while br they will come back with a vengeance. br br All this life—the rue, the oaks, br the many-lived vines, myself—in the cycle br of spring renewal gives me pause, br not to consider the song of life and death, br rather, how difficult is is to be, and how joyous.br br Hanque O . . .