Winter Catkins #2 (Poetry)

They’ve lost their lemon pollen-heavy swing
but aged to chestnut, dangle out their days
imagining the lightness of the spring
pressing green to oust dull winter greys

These weeks of furnishing the quiet trees
and setting free their subtle clouds of dust
are over now — exhausted by the breeze
they bide their time, accept the rule of rust

Their purpose done — fulfilled another year
the earth warms up and sap is set to rise
while winter catkins shrivel, dying here
hung still against late February skies