Walking the Dog in Winter

The tree holds sky between its branches—

a cloud and a blue so intense it reminds me

of summer, as if it’s possible for a dying,

lonely thing to open its arms and wrap

warmth inside stillness. Of course

nothing actually works like that. The cloud

shakes itself free from the tree’s embrace,

refuses to take part in my wishing

this blustery, scattered moment into metaphor.

A long time ago life flamed complicated

patterns. There were cities, the rush and crush

of love, late nights in bars and unfamiliar

rooms, lights that blurred by or blared neon,

other lights strung across melodious courtyards.

Always there was the swoosh of days—years—

streaming between high buildings. I still like

to think about it sometimes but I don’t miss it.

At the center of the field the tree waits

with its fanned branches, its high, delicate

expectations spread so wide I’m sure

it won’t be long until night comes

with blackness and a slow dazzle of stars

to teach us about a different kind of blossoming.