growing old, thick bark shuddering beneath
the weight of snow.
I like to watch from my window
the way the trees slowly cave. Flexible they seem
until winter deepens, when branches
crack like old bones do when age comes knocking.
Snow doesn’t patter glass
the way rain does, but whispers softly
against my hand on the other side of the
window. A gentle reminder, a new awareness
of the pending winter that settles in sleep.