Thursday, December 30, 2021


At the quietus 
of an old year, let this be 
my decree:

only that I 
be patient—resolute 
as the trees

which stand mangled 
by wind, 
tickled by cold rains, 

or insulted by sleet
which forgets
how to slow.

For I too am exposed  
to every whim
of this climate;

I too 
sometimes dream 
on my feet

of flocks in formation
with their beaks
at true north, 

or the vulnerable shapes
of those first buds 
in April.