Treetops sway in the wind
outside the hospital breezeway.
Crude brooms
hastily assembled from the litter of fall
lash the leathery sky.
Secure behind a window
I watch them at work,
sweeping what cannot be swept,
a futile protest against the snow
surging from the sky in tumbling gray heaps.
Creatures here below yield to the storm,
hiding in hovel and home.
Hoping for reprieve,
they ponder their chances:
Positivity fails.
Philosophy shatters its delicate bones.
Old dreams clatter then crack,
like so many iced limbs.
The wind makes fools of them all.
This heaving of trunk and root–
This karmic dance of limbs–
These branches lashing heaven–
They accomplish nothing.
The sky will outlast their angry demonstration.
The storm is stronger than the trees–and knows it.
But I would rather pray for the fragile trees
than worship the fierce gods of winter.
I would rather be a falconer releasing God’s raven
than prepare a sacrificial fire to Odin.
I would rather join the trees rioting for their redeemer,
calling out for him who stilled the storm and quenched all fear
And left all creatures here below, praising.
— E. D. Nelson