An unkindness of wind —

no gentle breeze,

nor exiting lamb,

but a sundering;

A dispassionate tearing

that strips bud and blossom

and exposes the maple’s

soft and aging heart.

I cannot sleep

for the arboreal cries it exacts,

for its moan among

the pine’s fringed and lashing limbs,

for its persistence upon

the window’s too-thin panes.

It wants entry.

It has torn through

one-hundred years of wood

and would add a bone —

or several dozen —

to its discards.

–C.Birde, 4/16