Blood pressure
Like the rising wind
Whips up and pounds in my ears.
I am battered,
Fried.
Branches thick as my thigh in the backyard this morning
astride her toy car.
Not the windows, I reassure myself.
Not the roof.
Nothing soft, nothing permanent.
We gather the evidence of ourselves and move it all into the garage.
Snow blowing sideways now
And my poor pounding heart
Aflutter, unmoored,
As the wind howls its demands
In the middle of the night.