Trees

It seemed they grew old overnight
white beards sweeping the streets
wind through their branches a querulous mutter:
"winters now... not like when I was a sapling..."

What happened to my springtime playmates
who held my hands between tender leaves,
spattered me with pollen and laughed in the rain?
Weren't they young then?

Now with white wool blankets heaped over their feet
they creak and grumble under the weight of ice
and turn restless toward the retreating sun. Another
day; the solstice will pass and the trees on my block

will grow backwards toward spring.

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