The plant matures to arid as days pass,
withstands the wind more weakly every week
till pummeled and untethered, makes a mass
that tumbles free and frolicsome: a freak
and vagabond that travels whither when
and how the currents of the wind command,
experiencing forth and back again
in rootless disconnection from the land.

So I’ve been dried and battered by a mess
of problems big and little that won’t stop.
No sooner have I shaken off one stress
than on my head another one will drop
till like the tumbleweed I’m shaken free,
and anchorless I’m flitting giddily.