Celsius

Boughs bend under the weight
of spring-time snow,
hanging wetly over the sidewalk
in my way.
By afternoon, the snow melts
into a contracted rain.
The trees unburden themselves.
As I walk, my heart
seethes with ambition;
my stomach churns impossibilities.
Hours move silent as the sky
and I,
in this white twilight,
observe the icy buds and blooms
in watery shades of pink, and green,
and try to think of a word
that means "Spring," but isn't,
and try to compose a self
verdant, vernal, viridescent:
born between seasons, between stories,
uniting barren Winter with fecund Spring
in branches, hanging over the sidewalk,
in my way,
heavy with blossoms
and snow.