On the windowsill—scarlet bonsai
That shed their leaves,

Becoming a pair of slanted twigs
Clenched tightly about their saps.

My best guess: when to water them,
Followed by how much,

The ground outside frozen solid,
Snow come-and-go on the glass.

Then one day in April, the clear
Lamps of sunlight in the room,

I noticed curving, thread-like stems
At the tip of each twig—live wires

Burning symmetrically green
Where the slips would soon

Leaf out. To have shade trees
In the yard in coming summers

Has been the plan, but now
I think I might keep them here,