one hurricane I
lived through, other was different
and lasted longer
It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.
Hurricane By Mary Oliver as published in A Thousand Mornings: Poems. (New York: Penguin Books, 2013).
Standing by the storm surge pole on Tybee Island I got to thinking about how nice it would to have something like this to indicate the depth of political despair in the country right now.
This comes close from this mornings NYT article: We Asked 50 Legal Experts About the Trump Presidency Before the election, we surveyed the legal establishment about what a second Trump term could mean for the rule of law. A year later, they’re very, very worried.
For some things …
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me
No Haiku For You 