I am confident. I don't need
your symbolisms: a severely damaged
heart, a sick tree, wilting or rotting
there is nothing left but to be courageous.
The accidental cause shattering the stoic
bone, the bright, white light receding
like a burning fume, punishes only those
who least expect it. I will not grieve for
what was meant to be; I will resist it.
Just now, the poplar leaves wrestled from
their fragile stems, all but doomed, twist
and turn, flying in the autumn winds.