In a Brookyn backyard on Bedford Avenue,
Some sundry things are secured now.
The legs are lashed on a lit-often grill,
A mower made fast so it will move not.
A storm struggles northward, strains up the coast,
Prompting pleas to be safe from parents and kin.
This answer I offer to all who are worried:
We do what we can to weather the storms
Of rain and of rancor in the realm mortal.
As best as can be, battened are hatches.
We watch now and wait upon weather's pleasure,
Seeking our solace in trust of the Savior.