Transitional Poem
63
32
The red nor-easter is out:Trees in the covert strainLike dogs upon a leashAnd snuff the hurricane.Another wind and tree nowAre constant to their west:The breath that scours the middayUnseen, is manifestIn this embittered thorn—Forcing the stubborn frameTo grow one way and pointHis constancy and aim.
This wind that fills the hollowSky, of a vacuumWas purely bred. The thorn onceIn modest seed lay mumThat squats above the AtlanticPromontoried on pride.For my tenacious treeRequires not, to decideThat he has roots somewhere,A tropic foliage;Since that the leaf recursIs a sufficient gauge.
