Dear tree in the median outside the window above the desk where I'm writing,
Your still-bare branches seem like witch hair or, now tufted with snow, maybe a late-day Cloris Leachman 'do.
No, wait, looking more closely, now I see the spine of your trunk dividing into branches that thin and thin again at each junction. Those aren't twigs; they're dendrites! In the cloudy outline of your crown, I intuit the shape of a brain.
Nah, that's not it. You're an inverted feather duster that whisked last night's flakes from the sky's grimier corners.
Or what if, instead, you're a frozen firework, each limb of your cold wood tracing an imagined line of light?
Don't mind me. I don't think I've ever spent this much time resting my eyes on you, and we've been neighbors for more than a decade. Neighbors -- that's a funny way to refer to you, don't you think? Social distancing expectations must have me grasping at the closest connection straws. Look at you, though, all by yourself on a strip of snow-covered grass between four lanes of asphalt. Is that where you want to be, this place you've laid down your roots? Or would you rather repose in a quiet forest where coming spring breezes might ease your soon-to-be-green branches lightly against other arbors?
The writer at the desk by the window