the best way to know trees is in winter
without the cheat-sheet of leaves
when arbor crowns fall to ground
and all you have are chalky outlines
against a gray forensic sky
that is when you must study silhouettes
unearth rootstalks, seek patterns in branches
trace the filigree of twigs, read bark like braille
understand the anatomy of blind-folded botany
you must close your eyes, take your time
search for signs—leaf scars and catkins
the weepy treacle of sap, chestnut knob
and honey locust thorn, inhale
for the scent of black birch, larch, cedar
that is what you do when all of winter
is unadorned, when trees aren’t trees at all
but stark cyphers of what they were
hieroglyphs before the fall
the cave painting aftermath of bloom
and virgin blush, when all that remains
is a tangle of seasons spent