dead wood

the hurricane blew through last Friday,
shook things up.
more hype than harm
unless
it was your house
the oak tree chose.

Hermine, male or female?
unisex?
its identity
compliant
with vain egalitarian edicts.

yesterday’s debris, once projectiles,
now harmless
fodder for compost,
saturday’s chore:
rake it
now.

stems, sticks, straw, once significant,
lie lifeless in irrelevance,
litter the lawn, layer the Zoysia.
dead wood,
life’s last statement.

the Rake,
methodical and impersonal
like time,
slowly sweeps clean,
performs last rites,
no tears.

the Past, Yesterday’s life,
lies strewn about in random stacks,
still and silent.
i lean on the rake, wipe off the sweat,
and look up.

from lofty heights above,
the oaks and pines
observe with indifference
the wake below,
being burdened less
by extra weight.

the wind, wild and wanton,
blew through, will blow again,
not if, but when.
something will be lost
something will remain.

everything…
tenuous
like
Life.


Bud Hearn
September 9, 2016