Tuesday, September 13, 2022


A huge cottonwood
By the lakeshore fell
In a storm of wind
And not much else, one
Afternoon in June.

It lived a few years
Lying on its side,
Half green, half submerged
In summer, half wet,
Half ice in winter.

Before and after
It died, its branches
Created fan vaults
Just under the waves,
A sort of a weir,

Drifting or swimming
Wet world forms of life.
Each twig’s character
Accrued some meaning,

Growing and hungry
Things that lived around
The leafless black lines
Not really alive
But sheltering them.

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