Windstorm

The light glorious warms the hours,
asking forgiveness for the gale
bullying trees and knocking them flat,
tearing at ropes, stopping the buzz.
The sharp silence inside.
the gentle roar outside.
Ticklish trees and leaves at play
swooping and swirling,
sashaying and sliding,
dipping to descend in a blink,
blanketing all beneath.
Yellow and red:
shining then dark,
taking turns, and
letters lined up
inside the diamond,
directing drivers and
distancing directors.
Each page tells a story.
A little girl and a maple tree
there in the corner,
offering shelter and shade—
a steadfast sentinel
going nowhere
—like mom—
until the parasitic
organisms and cells
killed their hosts and
left nothing behind
but a stump
and yearly games of  guessing
when the guilt would show
and how merciless it would be.
It’s always October:
life and death playing together,
swooping and swirling,
sashaying and sliding,
until all is a blur.
The grey houses,
the railroad tracks:
too young to be there alone,
too innocent to feel afraid.
Just the cold gnawing
at nose and cheeks,
darkness crouching
behind rocks and trees,
a snowmobile in a yard
and trucks up on blocks,
woodsmoke dancing
with the mist in the air.