Yesterday on a walk I spotted the tentative pink blossoms of a cherry tree. Only part of it was budding, as if it were dipping its toe in the water of spring, testing to be sure that the warm air and bright sun are not illusions. I’ve noticed other trees with a pinkish haze about them, an aura of what is to come. And although our forsythia isn’t yellow, it has a fullness that comes before the bud.

Before it’s too late, then, let us celebrate the elemental tree, the tree unadorned with leaf or flower. The heft of a trunk, the way branches frame the sky. This winter has been hard on trees; many were so weighted with snow that they will never rise again. But others have, inexplicably, survived.

Willa Cather wrote, “I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.” I agree.