6 July 2023: Storm Damage

Storm Damage

~ by Lisa Ann Reilich

I am fascinated by the Trees.

Green trees, brown trees, and most

especially the long, gray sprouting

Red Maple Trees. Their tenacity,

even when sawed close to the ground,

to recover and come yet again, sprouts

shooting from their severed trunk. Puzzling.

Entrancing even … and even more, I am fascinated

by the tall and rough black-barked elders of these kind,

reaching seventy feet high, (maybe more?) stretching

festive limbs filled with delicately-fingered branches

reaching to heaven — only to have them heavy and strong

seemingly torn from their sockets, leaving fresh orange

and brown sap-laden rough holes after one solid storm.

And was it the wind (that tore off the limb)?

Or was the limb only waiting

for the wind to arrive so it could fall?

Was she biding her time while still

reaching for the sun? Letting go a little

here, a little there, only noticed if

you listened carefully for her creaking

on bitter black February nights?

And what of the Mother tree left so marred,

gaping widely and slack-mouthed

from her splintered wound?  Her two left leaders

stretch still to the heavens, and soon Spring sap

will fill her and them out in festive red seed wings

trimmed with green-hued unfurling leaves.

Surely, she still feels the pain, the absence,

looking down, (her fallen self) her daughter

heavy at her feet — her child who, even now,

through some God-bestowed drive, like a death spiral,

unfurls green leaves from herself, as if her last breath —

her final offering to still hungry fawns who have,

in the wombs of their starving mothers,

this Winter overcome.

2022, vs. 3 


Return to Thoughtful Thursday Poetry Corner