The Will In The Windows Poem by Dan Reynolds

Throughout the night we felt the turmoil build
as weather fronts combined to do their worst
The Gods held conference in their sacred Guild
as trees were tossed and riverbanks were burst.

The muffled movement, pulsing through the eaves
could raise the tiles aloft at any time.
The drainage dissapeared neath Autumn's leaves.
The river now runs straight, not serpentine.

When every tree's a willow in the wind
in some bizarre aerobic fitness class,
they touch their roots like toes till gales rescind
to bend or break until the terrors pass.

The storm breaks and the pessimist may see
his life consists of clearing the debris.