a poem, of winter

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 at the warm
grateful

but confused

the birds   the plants

and I.

~ cmonetti
2.20.12