It Was All that I Could Do

It was all that I could do to stiff-arm 

the darkness of the Midwest. Shut out

the smothering grayness that infected

any hint of sun joy. My tendency 

was to recover from the embarrassingly

spindly trees. The spindly trees held

in memory even in June when rain water

rinsed the leaves awake. Rain water

baptized the trunks and branches and the leaves

but not my heart. My heart held still. A captive

of the overarching strictness of routine