Arbor Day

Above the house, the top-most branches reel

and shudder in mimicry of how the maples

trembled when they were saplings

and children carried them here from school

like staffs of office. The house creaks tonight

with the lives of all its owners

as though no one ever moved away or grew up

into forgetting. The children wake

with the storm. Through streaking windows

lightning casts quick shadows in the hall

where the children gather. Their talk is the sighing

of stairs, the shifting weight of old furniture.

It's small wonder then

that the new owner passes them by

as he comes down to check the doors and look out

on the lawn where leaves float

in battered puddles. Someone cut a row

into the shin-high grass then left

the push mower stopped like an idea

in midsentence. The flashing singles out

the blades, the wind rocks

the handle as if to finish the chore.

By dawn each shadow has climbed back

through the trees. The maples describe a circle

around the one that has fallen.