Budding

Home from school,
a very spring day
framed by snow
and cold to come,
and full of news
and how well
for the teacher
and bulk of students
it’s all going; she takes
scissors and severs
every bud on the tree
outside her room: to blossom,
she says, would be to open
into nothing. The sky lies,
the warmth
bothers skin
acclimatized to cold
it can’t bear.