My resting tree
pressed like flower
flat upon my window glass
would not stay still last night,
but wildly thrashed and leapt about
threshing all my hopes from sleep.
Leaves and limbs danced madly;
stronger gusts attacked the trunk
in startling ways.
At gray dawn
gray tree still writhed upon a same-gray sky
as something I should capture-
I’ve drawn the tree before-
charcoal on rough paper,
but I’m not good at drawing wind.
354 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.