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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!
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