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