No god walks here among the plethora of ice-snapped branches and sulky grey underbrush. Trees hold trees like the wounded are carried in battle. The storm has swept the limbs arthritic. Through miles of aftermath, the sun is setting a pale rose hue, so none forget there will be flowers, so not one soul questions spring will arrive. My day is reborn. Don’t tell me to sleep when buttercups have found their way into the gloaming.