This is Burnett.

Today, we're sharing a poem by writer Camille T. Dungey.

Clearing, all night, the wind blows.

In my mind, my mind is like the hawthorn that loses limbs.

They litter the ground, crush the black-eyed Susan,

scatter buds over rows of lettuce,

beans sprouts whose greens are clusters of worry in raised beds,

blown leaves and crack limbs threaten our foundation.

Water backs up in gutters, seeps into the house as well.

But my mind, my mind is not in the house.

In the yard's far corner, the eye of my mind

rests on a hawthorn branch, shaken, snapping, hectic, then still.

The day dawns without anger.

The blue-jay I looked for pushes sky off his crest,

how splendid his wings and tail.

It's not so much that before this, he'd hidden himself.

It's only he favored a roost I could not see

until the storm thenned the tree.

This poem is from Camille's new book,

Soil, the story of a black mother's garden.

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