flesh 9

roy herndon smith

after the storm, we
stop and look at the felled tree
in the neighbor’s yard

the jags of white wood
the dark rot and the green mess
of leaves and branches

we comment on how
lucky it only glanced the
corner of the house

we fall silent when
we see the widowmaker
hanging high above

our heads in the tree
next to the felled one, we go
our separate ways