way, this time of year,
that the bare branches bend
with each sharp
sprig of wind—
or are coaxed
even more so
by snow's mellow angles
and the permanence
of evening—
to bow gently
downward,
which may make
you feel like
letting things be,
and just as I begin
(a little too coincidentally)
to reexamine
my usual ploy
to gain pity.
