Backs broken by blizzard and ice,
arched over, the entire hedgerow.

I was the boy at that window, worried
what would happen come spring. Imagining

resurrection, or not: forsythia forever
rounded toward earth, the tunnel permanent.

And I was the boy looking at the trees
in the distance, wanting to smooth my palms

over their bushy tops, to feel
their green tickle on my nervous skin.

Later, willfully moving my fingers in front
of my face, shutting one eye and erasing

part of the scene. Raising a thumb
bigger than the sky, annihilating everything.