Relieving the Cypress of Their Burden of Snow

Eight inches of perfect snowman snow, wet
and clumped on everything. Our row,
once tall and erect, now bent to the ground
in prayer, thin spines burdened by snow, branches
encased in its crust. When I grab the tops
of their bowed heads and shake each free
of their outer layer, bringing them down
with my weight then letting go, the trunks sway up
a foot, a foot and a half higher, bodies
like great defunct dinosaurs coming back to life.
Each branch I knock rises up like a fan in the wind;
gradually the whole line climbs back on its feet,
still bent and broken in places but no longer defeated
by the tremendous burden. The taller ones need me
to climb inside their bodies to rattle their bones
like a lover, bending the curve of their spine back far
the other way. The sun’s come out now and soon
the trees will forget this weight. But for now
I am happy, beloved among them, bathed in sweat,
looking for just the right place to release the pressure.