Enough that the glass fronted fireplace
rattled and shook, something wanting out

or through, and up above our bed a solid thump
signifying a wayward branch, nothing yet

with the sickening crack, crushing wood sounds
to mean a whole oak down,

and so we slept, having nothing else
in mind. To him, “Do you know our agent’s phone

number?” Did I imagine I’d be gone?
That was one scenario of a morning after,

one that didn’t dawn. Now the wintry
sun clambering over my shoulder with a warm

touch like a consoling rainbow,
thin promise of a reprieve until

another storm—and the twig litter thrown
all over the yard like wild gestural marks.


Photo By: Christian