I mimic upraised branches
reaching with extended metal fingers
that spring hungrily from here to there.
Gold sky-turned hearts cling to thicker branches;
silver-furred shoots wag at the coming squall.
Lonely in mid-winter murk
for today the sky is abandoned,
only the breeze
looking for scraps of snagged foliage
keeps me company.
making white oval faces,
taking the green wood.
As the pile of cuttings grow
my compulsion wanes.
Leave them wild, girl.
Let them tear at their roots.
The next outside day
I sever ownership of the task gladly,
then refuse to inspect the finished work
for nothing could be altered.
Instead I will wait for growth.