Bark

In the dusky cold, hiccupping Maritime excuse for spring (one step forward, ten steps back)lawns have gone pea-green again, flowerbeds splintery with frost. The most alive thing, save the withered crocuses, the elm outside the window. Bark as fissured as Methusela's skin. Elephantine trunk. Lichens, moss. Brittle, stalwart, stationary but for a slight tilt earned by resisting hurricane winds. Patient. Finite but reaching towards the sky. Oblivious of cold, of a sun turned bitter. A clutch of outstretched arms blue-black against the paler evening. If one were inclined to bundle up, slip outside, lay a bare palm against its frigid skin, what then? The rough promise of April?