After Storms

Here and there the widowmakers

have fallen from the oak

that was a larger self

than this crotchety rattling against the wind.

Or perhaps I see this more clearly,

knowing loss can be loved

without danger or reciprocation

when love is gone. Any limb

might have ripped from its socket

like an elbow, not to speak

of who might be walking underneath,

the naked wire or car

parked in deckled shade.

Torn, the limbs do not wince,

as, falling, they are not

responsible for the least clutter,

spreading a desolation of shade.

The wind's circle is sad

and antiseptic, though too large

to see all at once.

If cleansing is a damage,

I look to the ground.

This time only the tree

and a few crushed jonquils

suffer mostly when imagined,

but not just the wind

levels things. In the longer descent

we fall through, part

of our rot behind us, comfort

we find hardest, we have already

acquired such fatal speed.