Confluence

Donn Furman

Hiking up the hill after
A restless night of rain,
I stopped to catch my breath,
Rasping and ragged from chemo.
A chamise grew along the trail.
On the tips of a woody branch
Droplets hung from rusty seeds —
Shimmering tiny ornaments
Holding and reflecting gray sky.
Branches on the right were dry.
But for the storm and the cancer,
The hill, the droplets, and the dry,
I would not have noticed
How the wind had found
Its way through the trees.

4/17/23

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