Looking up at bare limbs stripped clean of leaves on a wintery day
when the wind wailed a prelude for the procession of March,
I saw the trees shift, branches reaching for what they couldn’t hold.
The movement made my feet wonder if we were upright or falling
and my hands replied quickly with a grab to the door frame
to show Gravity we were not her toy, though what the trees were
doing defied all I know of earth’s spin and the nature of wood,
in the same way, I suppose, that Nijinsky defies rigor mortis.
Dana Hughes © 2.29.14