Snow lights on a branch,
piles on it. The branch temembers
birds who touched down upon it
before something deep inside them
warned them to fly away.
The branch snaps, falls into snow,
until its memories of birds
have been buried and its dreams
of growing have been forgotten, and sunlight
seems like just another dream.
After snow melts at last
into now, into no and ow,
some well-meaning asshole
picks up the bent, leafless branch,
and asks it for a few kind words
about snow, a fun memory or two,
maybe an amusing little anecdote.