It held.
This mass of brittle
fragile things,
leaf bricks,
joists of sticks,
held.
The tree lunged,
convulsing
in a murderous
hungry wind —
still it held.
When sunset
painted the exhausted day
in a copper light,
and remnant clouds
dithered,
like sluggard thoughts,
it held.
The poet longs
for metaphor
but
doubts.