Within the confines of my backyard
there stands a testament to woody plants.
It sways as do the timber everywhere,
but its bending boughs beckon me to watch them.
I do look on while wafting limbs
wildly wave with the wanton winds
creating the effect that simulates
a frantic plea from plant and tree
to quell and blow no more.
Tempests are not affected by the wishes of onlookers;
killing breezes gust to the gallop and the squall
pushes the weather wall across the fields and
through the forests.
Lumbering sentinels pare and slow the gale
as their abilities allow.
For me, the observer, the winds occur and
expect to race around the world unimpeded,
and may very well do so.
My tree, however, will not be denied. It will grasp and
detain; sacrificing twig, leaf, and sowable seed.
When the wind blows, my tree sifts its soul -- for me.