False Fostering

Wing veins are hanging from the tree branch,
Next to the wooden swing
And the laundry line sagging in the breeze.

"It was orange," they tell me
"Orange and yellowy-gold."

Lights and stars were standing
When it fell, they say,
Untouchable but not immune.

"Was it worth it?" I ask.

"It was too perfect," they explain,
"It had to go."

A snowflake lands on my nose,
And a shiver sets in;
The remnants are tossed away indifferently
Broken in the wind

And crumbled into ashes.

Too perfect, they say,
Let's leave it at that,
Or else we're going to miss the Spring.