Fluffy widow-maker squatting on the ridge, go heavy on the rails. Rot quickly and let us breathe free, while we are still standing. Bone white lips tolerant of a tighter lockdown, share sloppy snow kisses, transforming all branches to birch waiting to crack temperamentally on our heads. Her smile is polar bear smooth, frightening the twisted petioles that dare to dangle outside of their new diameter. Silver diamond marks like veering sleigh tracks, dwarfed and bedraggled. Her children shedding bark. They say the tiny flakes are the real monsters, painted white to minimize disease. Icicle tickles dying in daylight, still beats the sun damage, fungi and careless cracks that often kill the local variety.
