The atmosphere
crackles and splits,
forked by
firey charge-
Thunder bellows like
a porting barge,
rattling fractal
branches-
as the wind
barrels down
unbending wood with
labored, ardent lashes.
The storm descends and departs
in the dark-
all moon-kissed sound
and fury.
It isn’t until sunup
that we
can take stock
of the damage.
The ransacked limbs
and splintered gashes.
The resin-heavy breeze
and sap-spattered streets.
Tally the
arborous
carnage.
Overhead,
survivors stand
barer than before-
but all the more
resilient
for their sway
and ceded fir.
pm poetry 