Lovely old tree fell the night of the ferocious wind
across the path we often take catching young ones
and woody vines as it went scattering broken branches
all about and I wonder how it sounded how it looked
if the ground trembled as it fell if itself trembled
heaving up the earth around its roots leaving behind
a scarred tear and was it ready or nearly so?
Had it died last summer and I failed to notice?
Had the others paid tribute, was it loved in any
particular way by anyone in the way that I love
the four sycamores, the huge cottonwood that I like to
wrap my arms around, the perfect cedar skeleton,
the tree whose gnarled roots hang over the edge
of the creek, the ancient burr oak that
practically everyone around here reveres?
Was it? Yes or no it has fallen now across the
path barely missing the bench that was put there
in memory of some well-loved someone who
died too soon.
