As a tree bends to the storm,
so this poem.
My rage alone allows
the swing and bow,
tossing to circumstance
as to a dance.
The strong and slippery bark,
shining, dark,
in graceful submissiveness
to all that is,
the wind, the night, the sap,
cracks and snaps
and will not break. The dawn
finds leaves down
and light reveals the tree
exhausted, free.
The turgor in the twigs
resilient springs,
permits the full escape
of prisoned ache
and blowing through the storm
defies all harm.
Weaker, would never bend,
now finds its end
in testing sorrow's root
and perpetual fruit.