Summer Storm
by Karen Jobst


Longer than we could safely
 stand at the window,
 rain and hail razed our lot
 
 and midway through--
 the willow's limbs,
 some the circumference
 of telephone poles,
 had jackknifed over the fence.
 Half a tree--
 one side wistful,
 the other serrated stumps,
 still had presence.

 The side near the gate,
 a resurgence of sinewy vines,
 interlaced, dipping
 their extended ends
 over the rigor mortis.
 A foil now for the scratching
 feet of squirrels and birds,
 their chittering and calling
 unbound in a forum
 without benefit
 of shadow or
 reflected light.






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