The wind is rearranging things today–
the March lion is roaring early (this being February),
stirring shadows as if it could alter the dance
of life itself.
On Facebook, I see an old woman in Chicago
almost blown away, then helped into a cab
by two young strangers.
Beside the road, an old Maple tree branch falls
into an explosion of twigs. I wish for a replay
and then the light turns green.
In the front yard, the dormant Magnolia branch
that broke off a few weeks ago tumbles to mid-yard.
“Leave the branch,” I say. “It will flower and I will
write a poem about it.”
Susan Fuchtman 