My muse mostly knows to stay silent, but this popped into my head, based on a poem by Robert Frost.

When I see my birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter higher trees,

I like to think I’ve been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.

Ice-storms do that.

Sometimes storms bend birches to where heads touch the ground,

Where I know they cannot be repaired.

I can’t will them to stand again.

But the straighter tree speaks hope and shelter,

Lifted up so high.

It whispers that these birches have been through storms before,

And more will come. The brunt is borne.

When I see my birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter higher trees,

I like to think I can fix them,

But my fixing doesn’t straighten them to stay.

Grace does that.