February 4

With last summer’s leaves lying

spiney beneath snow,

With dead grass stalks marring

the drifts’ edges,

With despairing dunes in frozen rolls

reaching the edge of everywhere

And clinging in minute, frozen particles

to contained roots’ places,

With splintered wind searching

cracks in its crotches,

Scarring bark against boughs,

testing tips of branches,

This cottonwood awaits its time,

whispering undaunted to itself

Of Spring.