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.
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