There is a birch in the backyard, still standing
after three named storms. While birches are known
to bend instead of break, most have fallen
in this deadly season—snapping with the oaks
and pines, limbs blown about like spears
until resting motionless in the sodden grass,
each a sword surrendered in battle. Yet one remains
rooted to the earth, barely upright, its green leaves
reaching toward the sun’s reluctant light. Its life
somehow not extinguished like candles lit inside
the house for hours after the power went out.
This tree should be no match for a hurricane,
and it nods, humbly, with the wind as if to agree:
Praise not resilience—but some intangible mercy.
–
Marissa Glover lives and writes in Florida, where she’s busy swatting bugs and dodging storms. Her poetry collections, Let Go of the Hands You Hold (2021) and Box Office Gospel (2023), are published by Mercer University Press. You can follow Marissa on social media at _MarissaGlover_.