Lying in bed this morning,
ready to begin the day,
listening to wind rock branches,
roar against the screen,
I groaned, rolled over
to hide underneath the pillow.
Then, remembering Mary Oliver’s words
about West Wind tantalizing the roses,
irritation blew away as I imagined
tender roses, wispy winter twigs,
bare lilacs, emerging crocus,
shuddering under the electric caress
of a forceful lover.