Branches braided

like my hair

crochet window:

 

high up there

squirrels whirl

dance & weave

 

suspended

grace

grasping nothing.

 

It’s March, the dawn

is silver thin,

garden blooms

 

& cherry tree

 

unfurls impossible

pink, all of this

teeters in the sleet

 

fragile, hopeful

bursting free

from darkness.