Winter Hazel

Bare, the tree shows its working: every decision it ever made about the light,

each turn away from the wall, each reaching toward the gap where the sun would be at four.

In summer it hid all this under a green agreeableness, the way we do.

Now the whole argument stands against a low white sky and I find it beautiful —

not in spite of the plainness. Because of it. Because nothing is being claimed.

The catkins are already there, small and stubborn as commas in a sentence not yet written.