See how the hundred-year old fir
uprooted by last night’s storm

fell against another tree–
her left side skinned of bark,

leaning unstable, incarnadine
wound. How the forest shook

all night, branches, leaves,
pinecones, sorrows flung

against the Earth, leaving
only mute birds, frail insects.

A winter past we stood beneath
this same canopy, listening

to screech owls fill the starless
firmament, their scolding

clamor, a breathless minute
when one swooped

and landed above us. I love
certain places as much as

the people whose memories
inhabit them after they’ve gone.

I say to the fallen, I’m sorry.
I say, that must have been so

frightening. I say to the standing,
you’ll never be the same.