I am afraid I shall bloom to soon, I said
staring through the window's glass
to branches bare, and grey.
An artist's stroke, a loaded brush,
A flick of the wrist and there.
A trunk, a limb, a limb
angling, reaching skyward.
It is pronounced and beautiful
this winter tree
holding its ground, standing strong
against
a blue blue sky. A sky
too soft for this season.
A sky for June.
Underfoot
life shoots forth
green, effortless
early
from ground that offers no resistance.
It is February
the heart of a winter
that wasn't,
and so we all look about the warm
grateful
but confused
the birds the plants
and I.
