in winter the trees
show their secrets

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
in winter the trees
show their secrets
the roses are sleeping
beneath the blanket of leaves the wind
has knitted and ripped from the trees.
how You bend the universe
to meet me where i least expect it —
these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
squirrels cannoned
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
all day long
the wind has been
scouring the trees;
now the lawn is thick
with bronzed leaves of oak,
tender yellow of maple,
wild red and orange
and byzantium of gum.
while the roses were drinking
i set the milkweed seeds
sailing on the wind,
watched as the air currents
caught their silken parachutes
and bore them aloft
and out of sight
at the little grey house on the corner
the spirea has begun to bloom,
delicate white blossoms creeping mistily down its long, slender branches.
after weeks of dry weather —
or merely a tease of moisture in the form of fog
or snow or sleet or drizzle —
the spring skies have finally broken open