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.

Later, walking in my windbreaker,

I swear I heard the naked mulberry tree

cry out in ecstasy

while her grandfather elm blushed

across the street.