branched
calligraphied there in the snow
cliché black and twisted bent where
the wind has leant for far too long
upon the gaunt thought of waiting
upon the drifting
upon the blurring
of eyes closed in the twirling
one to the other’s turning
silk like
trance like
beneath any understanding of the why
the branching sought the touching of fingertips
budding in the touching
in the turning one to another
touching as urgent as the wind presses the moment into being
into the consummation
the way the tree relaxes when the snow drops
as we turn prone to the tracing of the footsteps
that merged under the snow’s dawning
and now
asleep in the time that has had its time
knowing
not what that was
other than that it was now
that the black branches remembered the spring
the tight buds pulsed almost imperceptibly
in everything everywhere there was a pregnancy
in the untwirling of spliced time
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