That which lasts. That which endures. There is a poem I read about a year ago where the poet makes the observation that evergreens, while always having green boughs, still have needles that turn brown, go dry, and drop to the forest floor. I wish I remembered the poet’s name and the poem, but I do remember the idea. Poets and poems will come and go, I suppose, the idea is evergreen.
So, to me, evergreen doesn’t mean static or unchanging. Evergreen is not a frozen moment of fulsome bounty, on the verge but never falling like Keats’s suspended imminence.
No. Evergreen is steadfast presence embracing all seasons simultaneously. At once leaving and unleaving, growing and dying. In the whole of the tree, all phases. Not final but continuous, knowing that for every needle that dries and drops, somewhere on the tree, another awakes, tender and soft, smelling of newborn sap.
What is Present, not precious?