Fall in the Springtime

Wrote this in February. Seems appropriate now. Yeah, pretty much.

Mid-February
of a pregnant winter
and still they cling.

As faint and tattered stains
terminating the dark silhouetted tree branches:
the gray sky like a sidewalk stricken with cracks.

Somehow, where the lines are thinnest,
they catch the wind;
the branches to which they hold,
less still,
and out of place.

Still,
a slight rustling,
like hands waving.
A reminder, of sorts:

That after hours,
seasons, minutes, days
of weathering
the snow sleet icicles wind rain,
defying gravity, (among other laws):
they will not fall.

Until the branches bring forth blossoms,
that push in a refusal of cohabitation,
and grow them out
and into downward flight.