In deep winter
“don’t you imagine the trees”
begin to dream of green sundresses
and to think how comfortable it will be
draped in light fabric of cotton and linen
instead of wool and the branches of every
bush yearning for praise and recognition.

“And don’t you hear”
the crocuses waiting in the wings to say hello
again and the forsythia to speak in golden tongues
and snow putting on its long white night gown
for a deep sleep thinking it’s been a hard day
and the timid sun packing its light in loose bundles
into a fold-out suitcase longing to be on its way.