A woman waited
while the trees came
to place themselves in her.
She seemed surprised

at the outcome and not
altogether pleasantly so,
I would estimate.
No breath in seriousness

could swiftly cover it.
And so the old man
went chipping, chipping,
chewing the ground at intervals

not necessarily anticipated
by those in charge of
budgets and predictions.
For what is a budget,

really, but a wish,
a prayer almost that things
might work out as planned.
But things don't, or do,

but so rarely as to be
of no use to us at all
as we try again to appreciate
the terrific thin energy of our attempt.

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