I welcome winter’s stripped branches,
last year’s nests clinging to the sky,
the possibility of uninterrupted vista.
But this year, Sam tells me,
the generations have turned against us,
since we have eaten up the bounty
they thought would be theirs.
I look around. Perhaps it is so.
Still, I find some glory in final fruits—
a patch of ice, a snow-bent azalea,
one intrepid persimmon failing to fall.
