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March Snow

My soul weeps
Like a March snow,
Wet and heavy.
Holding on to branches,
Weighting them like a burden
It did not ask for and does not want.
The tree is helpless in shaking it.
It waits patiently for the sun
To melt and ease the ache.
It’s a slow process.
She prays for the wind.
Although the bulk will remain,
Perhaps the load will lessen,
Wafting away in a gust
To descend upon a sturdier
More stable recipient,
One with deeper roots and thicker bark.
For now, it has no choice
But to stand and hold its own
Until the elements change.


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