The day after the storm,
there were unwrapped presents
clinging to the bare arms of the oak trees.
A deflated kiddie pool,
a Barbie-pink jacket,
half of a doll's house.
I can't see the forest
for the trees.
Everything that ever mattered
is dangling from a branch —
wedding dresses, old quilts,
the art the kids made.
And then I saw the woman
lodged in the neck of the tree.
Her blue sweatshirt,
torn at the sleeve and the stomach,
floated across her like a burial shroud.
Her hair was blowing in the wind –
this time, mercifully,
a gentle breeze.
