(Not) A weather report

Image from Lucy's album

My attention is torn from my writing
by the sudden, raucous rustling of leaves
in the high, sprawling branches of the fig trees
unfurling noisily in blasts of wind
like waves
in a grumbling ocean
whose roar grows very loud
then recedes into
disquieting periods of
quiet

They are lusty and strong, these leaves
Spring's latest and uncontrolled litter
Thrusting upward and spread flat
Harvesting sunlight to fuel
organic factories

We have a mutual respect, I think,
for each other
though not necessarily, mutual
benefit
I cannot help but think that I have
given them little
while they have given me
so much more