This Year

Spring isn’t coming.
The tulip shoots, only
A few inches high
Have turned, curled in
On themselves and
Sunk head-first
Into the ground.

The leafless trees
Will not bud. Old white
Leaves still hang
On a few forest branches,
Old, bleached, white:
Last year’s bones.

The maple’s bark is
Dry and gray; all of its
Color has leeched into the soil
And the world is winding down
And we are falling off
One by one.

C. Bronco