That winter, after you left,
I would reach out and clutch
cold sheets and empty air –
I imagined that I still had life inside,
even if it was buried deep and
it seemed that you left me hollow.
They stood outside my window with
frosted bark armored against the biting wind
scraping against the frozen glass.
I imagined live green burrowed beneath the winter brown
and buds for new leaves tucked in until spring
as the branches creaked and tangled together.