It took me an hour to find the sapling
buried in the snow bank and another to uncover it—
in the end, it stood spindly and slight
in the whiteness, and I apologized for not coming
sooner. Its lower branches sagged, encased
in ice—having nothing else, I sat, bent forward,
and held the fragile arms against my neck. Cold fingers
melted down my chest.
Later, my grandma, who had watched from the kitchen window,
asked why I had dug a hole to pray.