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.