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
