Watching the Trees from the Safety of my Bedroom Window

A late winter wind blows in, announcing itself,

the kind that drives away the remains of winter

hanging on, bringing with it spring’s warmth to follow,

and the tree tops sway and bend, brushing the sky clear,

clear and blue, and no dance choreographed, bowing,

boughs and branches bare and aflutter, their laughter

is playful in the clatter of branch against branch,

a ticklish squeal, for they are unafraid

of March’s lion roaring, spring’s violent beginning

coming in, these trees bending and snapping back

in a feigned fearfulness, this playfulness

let loose, and, holding fast, asserting themselves,

taming the season’s approach, winter into spring.