Inverted brooms the naked trees appear,
with sturdy handle trunks and limbs that form
expanding vees against an atmosphere
begun to steam as sunshine follows storm.
The calendar says spring will not begin
for seven days and some, but weather keeps
a calendar no more than I within,
so trees and I are sprung to vernal sweeps.

I long to clean my dwelling, room by room.
I yearn to wash the windows, and I lust
to wipe and whisk and oil. With my broom
I’ll clear detritus; with my rag I’ll dust.
(This plan adorns the morning, but it pales
beneath the melon clouds that sunset sails.)