by Ada Límón

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out

of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor's

almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving

their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate

sky of Spring rains, it's the greening of the trees

that really gets me. When all the shock of white 

and taffy, the world's baubles and trinkets, leave

the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,

the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin

growing over whatever winter did to us, a return

to the strange idea of continous living despite

the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine, then,

I'll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf

unfurling like a fist to an open palm. I'll take it all.

by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak 

at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone

from the beginning to the end.

He noted first came the date of the birth 

and spoke the following date with tears.
But he said what mattered most of all 

was the dash between the years.

For that dash represents all the time 

that they spent life on Earth.
And now only those who loved them 

know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own, 

the cars, the house, the cash.
What matters is how we live and love, 

and how we spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard. 

Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left 

that can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough 

to consider what’s true and real,
and always try to understand 

the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,

and show appreciation more,
and love the people in our lives

 like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect 

and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash 

might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read 

with your life’s actions to rehash,
would you be proud of the things they say 

about how you spent your dash?