You ask me how I am doing

The birch branches sway with the weight, of
small bits of ice
crystal shards that crack as the winds come ’round
violently
then stop again
saying all is well

The robins don’t look as if they feel the cold
busy workers taking over the street
empty of folks with good sense
a wren, landing on a branch
when another gust whips the bough
dipping
and rising

Watching him cling, never
flung away
pulled east and west
until the most recent gale is done
as I cling to you O my God
while I am battered and blown

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