Not even the trees
can snag in halt this
vicious breeze
that bucks stoneangled corner house
and boasts of broken
boughs
to disconsole all twisted limb.
Best to face the test
square on and brave
what storm
portends until the sunless bluster’s gone.
For nothing bad lasts
past love’s forever fire
and even tyrant truant
whims
of plural hardblown
gusts of wind
fail to denigrate
the luck of seven
generations’ kin.
But fail even to record the joke of how
the chiseled dust
become from brittle monument’s cold
crust of old.
And means to
undermine their own
pathetic wills
are bucked by freedom’s
ceaseless toil
til joy destroys travail to command again bright days not to fail.
