Two months ago I looked at the sky through the branches of the crape myrtle tree in front of my house. Bare and slick, they were still home to some of last summer’s seeds.

Just now, a stiff breeze is blowing. I watch the leafed-out branches of the crape myrtle hopping, jiggling, swaying outside my window. When a strong current tussles the green boughs, the trunks move back and forth, like a mother’s hips as she moves her baby from one side to the other.

With spring full-on, the seeds are gone or obscured by new growth. And I am yearning for a sturdy April breeze to blow through my branches. They’re cluttered with matter from other seasons. A familiar hurt here. A long-standing sickness there. A wound is still pestering that limb.

It’s the breath of compassion, the salve of the gods, to which I call out. I pray to make room for new thoughts, new growth, shift this baby in me so she can grow strong in her trunk, and let her leafy branches dance with the currents in the sky.