There are trees that have just one leaf still hanging
flittering in the wind, listening to the crunch of feet on ice.
Other trees hold onto their leaves all winter –
their October burnt sienna now looks like January gold.
And most of the trees wear nothing, stripped
down to their essence, so dark against the grey sky.
This morning, snow falls and the heat kicks on inside,
the magic of a new blanket covering old, cold ground.
And suddenly the trees are dressed again,
dipped in white, a new christening glistening.
The questions, the un-fresh cat box, the worries still linger,
but now, the possible, good enough, glorious returns.
As first published in The Shuttle, March 2024