This cleansing tide streaks the afternoon birches,
And they would sing for joy in June,
But there they stand, winterized and ready for bed –
Red-yellow remnants shuddering slowly, silently.
Misting and drenching both as this minute passes,
The sunny shower sings alone.
Some branches stir in silent gratitude
And promise a resounding overture come spring.
To sleep, to sleep.
To dream, to dream.