For we are fallen like the trees . . .
Still teeming with green
The body of branches my children once climbed
Lay fallen on our lawn. Through our window
We’d watched the storm’s silver arm
Fling a rain-swelled axe into our white ash.
Watched its torso split. Watched one half lean
Into nothing, drop like a scarf.
And after, we sawed the massive bough,
Sorting the limbs still so
Electric with life, that green
Burned onto our hands and legs
While dust like ashes
Settled to the ground.