Traveling down a road—
a bare black lattice appears—
trees with just a hint of green,
a little sugar flowing in them
on a cold early Spring morning.
I see their dark branches
and think of Hitchcock’s, "The Birds,"
but I’m safe.

Branches don’t fly
and there’s a pale sun coming up,
colored yellow enamel of an old refrigerator.
I don’t feel dread or sense impending doom—
I love this paleness,
the marginal soul of greenwood faltering,
its uncertain destiny in ambiguous nature—
all those diminished buds
and frozen flowers of early Spring.
In my world like theirs, a little sugar is enough.