The park all week
turned to a snarl
of black on black,
a furred skin
of limbs too tight-laced
to trace by eye,
housing no birds
but hard stragglers.
It's cold today.
And, though we hoped
leaves would come
without this frost,
sleet coats the elms
in a gun-gray sky.
It's good to have
this much, at least:
choirs of boughs,
each outlined, the way
your pale hand
redraws the shapes
of shoulder, arms,
torso, spine—
their sketched-in lines
India-inked.
Just so, the snow
makes laden trees
light for a time,
each chandelier
turned its true
complexion of white.