In the windstorm
there is fear of toppling,
desire to grip the earth with toes,
stay rooted
with a net protecting everything around.
There is fear of being tossed,
a rough, uncontrolled turbulence
yanking all we know and love,
the mighty push
that shows us as debris.
There is fear of flying,
spinning in unknown relationship with sky,
at the mercy of a wind
that knows no mercy
and a penchant for rough landings.
In the windstorm
there is joy,
a cold daring,
an open adulation with the trees
that wave their spangled bodies
in surrendered supplication.
This wild dancing
in one spot
shakes off months of waiting in stillness,
ushered by the wind
to bend in helpless abandon,
twisted and stretched
from deep roots of reverence,
the buried succulence
that sweetens any storm.