judas-tree vs. the willow

Her posture is adopted from the arbor,
arms akimbo with fingers splayed
against her waist like leaves
soft and supple.  She laughs,
aesthetically stating she is the antithesis
of my descriptions,
my insistence of grace.

I wait:
the seasons change.
I am November, damp and brackish
no longer sedate. She starts singing
that it's not as glamorous
as I thought it would be -
this scythed state; to amputate
interlocked boughs and limbs
in the malaise makes me wish for spring.