The wind,

a merciless bully,

Forces the trees into morning yoga.

Branches incessantly reach toward roots.

 

The world,

or maybe the sky, is sideways today.

The cloud’s waste slamming the earth

at a harsh angle.

 

The Port,

Releases ships commanded by the sun to sea.

They will graze until it rounds them up,

back into the corral until light returns.

 

The gravel road,

occupied by lakes for mice,

still growing rapidly.

They will expand until they overflow,

running down the hill.

 

The grass

drinks heavily to cure its severe dehydration.

It gains back strength and color,

a quickly recovering patient.

 

My firewood,

refuses to light.

Its spirit dampened by the sky’s steady spill.

There are 3 buckets needing relief,

exhausted from catching the failures of my old roof.

 

My tired body,

wrapped tightly in three blankets,

exhales.