the me I see
ever shifting
like a Salento sky
in winter
promising
bright
fair
light
then winds shift
and blue
turns gray
thoughts turn cloudy
rain dismay
the me I feel
ever altered
falters
like an ancient olive tree
sick with disease
yet green
still growing
from gnarled base
willful
to keep living
keep creating
ignore
the ills
outwit self-hating
know that winds
will soon reveal sun
bid fair
clear the air
better days
new ways
to nurture the soul
mend the me
if just for a spell
knowing well
clouds will gather again
time unrelenting
bad stretches ahead
blow winds
blow
bring more good days
instead
enough to yield fruit
from the mind’s
new shoots
arising
from the twisted roots
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 