Winter tricks you into thinking
it’s the only certainty. Yesterday:
stark. Tomorrow: cold and gray.
Transformation? No such thing.
Sometimes branches writhe and wring
out a gleam, then hush, as if to unsay
it. You wonder if it’s possible
to change. Then, one morning, wings.
How ridiculous. Flower snouts essay
upward, unfold, and babble away
their scent and softness, unstinting.
You wonder if it’s possible.