Almost Spring

folding the trees, branch by branch; rolling the leaves. slender sticks play eye tricks; fat and juicy ones’ carried downwards. small branches gathered; large ones, heave ho. these matchsticks aren’t lit, and I don’t know how my small forest thrives …and then a sound an engine near, grinding through my Winter lookout, across the way, creating empty space for kids to safely play. the trees are stressed; and relieved as the roaring stops at the edge. on edge they want to dress their best, in Spring’s verdancy - it seems an emergency to get on with it; buds will show up after the tempest, for survival of the fittest, at least that’s the way the wind blows now …then silence.