heaviness tries to forgive
as skin peels to ooze
cold sharp cracks
twisted fingers plunge
piercing through fog
death lies in mud
I can't explain the pain I feel right now as the trees crash slowly, a branch at a time, as they give into the weight of the ice from the latest winter storm. Each snap makes me shudder as I frantically look for the newest victim. The destruction is bitterly harsh and utterly unforgiving.
To most it appears to be an inconvenience, to me it is a deep loss. There are few things that give me peace, that bring me simple joy without much effort on my part. Trees are my ocean, my mountains, my connection to Earth.
I cringe as they are stripped and snapped branch by branch. These aren't any trees, these are my trees---the trees that soothe me on those late spring nights and whisper to me on crisp fall mornings.
When I called my dad to see how their trees were doing, he said "Not good babe. Not good at all." The willows have split. One of the rose buds planted in honor of my mom so many years ago has been yanked from the ground and tortured.
I took comfort in the fact that dad sounded as depressed as I did over the casualties. "Stay inside. Don't look," he suggested. He knew I was hurting and didn't judge the silliness of it all. I think this is the first phone call I remember him saying "I love you" before hanging up.