Suppose that grey tree, so nude
and desperate,
began to waltz
slowly in time to something we
are deaf to in the thickening snow.
Would it be merely trying to get
warm and true,
as it seems one
does while dancing,
or would this be
an invitation from the inanimate
world our bones,
trying not to ache
with foreboding, seemed to warn us of
in early childhood?
Then, unenlightened by desire and
satisfied by very real dreams, we
were able briefly,
as from a window,
to look bravely upon the baroque will
of objects,
not knowing, in our clever
smile,
who really felt the cold.