Sometimes I’m sure I see them dancing.
Not just their branches, the whole tree.
They do that, you know, when they think
you’re not looking. Usually at night,
or deep in the forest where humans
seldom go. But here we are, in the midst
of March, the mistress of moods,
and she’s scattering snowflakes
in shining bright sun, and how,
imagine, if you were at tree, could you
keep yourself from dancing?