Reading seasons between the lines of a palm (idea)

Sky tried sunny, 
                 stuck with grey. 
Winter-starved branches claw its underbelly. 
   She leaves graceless footprints 
in the orchard's corridors. 

Here too, she recalls with precesion
his hand measured the length of her curves-- 
   noonday light-washed cerulean
shivered into focus, resonant. 

Summer fled. 
             Fall lingered on. 

Clutching at dead leaves,
   he crackled, 'what's wrong?' 
Nothing.
Everything. 

                Sky tried sunny, 
stuck with grey. 
She imagines repairing broken promises,
sucking sap from the veins,
gluing bark to the holes,

with frost-worn fingertips.