The trees are making white 
buds. Shrunken heads, 
last year’s berries, hang 
on leafing branches. I do not 
know the names. And here, 
fur creeps out of the 
pussy willow. I am 
warned not to put 
young stalks in water 
for their bloom is jealous 
yellow dust that drifts 
into dark corners, 
settles, and waits.