CONSIDER THE CYPRESS

In November, I watch a cypress tree die.

The tall conifer fades a little every day until its green needles turn gold, mellow into amber, forming a gilded circle of loss beneath its trunk. A crisp, dry scent lasts until the circle fades to nothing and soon the only sign of life is a silhouette of branches, black against the winter light.

In March, I witness a miracle.

The cypress rises from the dead, a phoenix. Dark branches sprout barely visible bulges that grow large as they twist toward the sun. Sunshine turns dove-gray bumps to yellow-green and then to spring-green. The cypress lives.

In April, I meet a contradiction.

As new foliage uncurls, needle-like leaves grow; narrow, spikey, but deciduous leaves. Yet the cypress looks and feels like a conifer. The cypress resumes its preferred evergreen self.

In May, I consider the cypress.

If needles are not always needles, if needles are sometimes leaves, what’s to be made of the cypress? Living as it pleases, the cypress rejects its origin story, refuses to submit to categories, declines to choose between either/or.

Equinox, Volume 9, 2025