searching memory’s dark, dry rooms?
Under high ceilings and dim attic lamps
I only hear echoes of my childhood’s lost past.
You’re calling me outside, past the dark, screen door
onto the back porch, to watch the gathering evening storm,
and there I see the willow tree dancing in the wind
its long green leaves thrashing, its supple branches bend
when following its sure, straight path, the lightning struck it down
and, like all things ultimately, smashed it dying into the ground.
Although I’ve searched these dry, long years after both of you had died,
my tears are done, I see the sun, and my flashing anger is now satisfied.
When one stops (The willow tree, The lightning) there is a touch of magic at play
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