Your warm fingers
angular and alien
hook through mine as if by accident.
We leave them there
our clasped fingers
and pretend not to notice our weightless hearts.
The day is gray and windy
trees fuzzed yellow-green with spring pubescence.
Cherry blossoms choke the gutters
drowning in Decemberlike rain.
Your fingers are like bare winter branches.
I wish I could go back to December
back to the bare simplicity
of naked branches and dormant earth
before the urges of spring
For One Shot Wednesday.