Against the Wind

In late autumn I cleaned some dead flowers from the garden.  The tempests had already begun: rain, wind and ice storms.    As I looked closer at the beaten chrysanthemums plants I began to see little people.  There were heads with wild dried-in-place hair, adults, and children.  I sketched the battered branches and then wrote the following poem:

Against the Wind

Chrysanthemums dry in the fall,
Face driving rain
And freeze in a windblown state.
Just like us sometimes.

But with God,
We bloom again!