In her book, American Primitive, Mary Oliver has a poem about John Chapman, who, for planting apple trees in Ohio, is known as Johnny Appleseed. Well, apparently, at some point in his life, the bottom fell out, so to speak. I quote the second half of the poem.
Well, the trees he planted or gave away
prospered and he became
the good legend, you do
what you can and if you can; whatever
the secret, and the pain,
there’s a decision: to die,
or to live, to go on
caring about something. In spring, in Ohio,
in the forests that are still left you can find
sign of him: patches
of cold white fire.
NOW, my dear reader, as part of me wants to wallow in anger and grief
over this election fiasco, I tell myself, do something, go out and
plant another plum tree, garlic, anything, something, and your
grief and anger will turn into blossoms and green shoots in spring.