AFTER THE STORM
That morning, after the storm,
everyone gathered about the tree
and marveled at its fall:
the body leaning gently on one arm,
its mighty head now cushioned by deep
branches, seemingly asleep.
"You wouldn't think a storm," one said,
then broke off, staring at the fruit
that never would be eaten red
and sweetened by the sun, or set
in jars and slowly left to cool,
the ripening years ahead gone, too.
"It was the wind." "The rain." Each spoke
a part of truth out of his own mouth
with words that could not make it whole
because the naked roots showed
how much there was to doubt,
the secret in the darkness crying loud.
Even a tree, she thought, biting her tongue
and bringing her childish thoughts down,
remembering the climbs, the stout swing hung
on rafters soaring to the sun,
a tree built like a tower
so you could visit God and talk for hours.
The men sawed logs and timber all that day
until there was nothing left, not
even a shadow where you could wait
and hide to see if it would wake,
then they buried the hole and forgot
what else they might have covered with the sod.
Dead trees tell no tales, she thought,
nor empty nests, nor little girls who see
how helpless all things are when caught
by storm, no matter how big or
strong or secure, and she walked quietly
into the house to help with the next meal.