The wind howled
Shaking windows in their frames
Whipping up litter
And stealing hats with rough fingers.
It gripped and ripped
More tender plants;
The tough ones braced themselves
Boughs battle ready,
With each gust came frenzy,
But each gust soon passed,
Leaving fragile calm in its wake;
A moment to prepare for battle again,
To find strength,
To plant feet strong,
To hold hats on.
Until, buffeted, broken, but hanging on,
The tough ones
And waved goodbye to the storm,
And, in the light of the weak, winter sun,
They began to heal.
Daily poem #836