Grace and Peace to you.
A great old tree has fallen
and taken a few more with it
in its tumble, swept trunks bare,
and left some leaning, bearing bodies.
The one armed pallbearers will stand
a hundred years without regret.
Beneath its jumbled heap of tragedy
great wounds of earth gape brown and fresh
where limbs have pierced and gouged.
The ferns look upward quietly.
A sapling, beech, bent over double,
turns a hand up to the sky.
What lives still in this mess will live,
rooted in these fertile ruins.
There is no surrender,
they are not coping,
but simply, as always,
reaching for the light.
Beetles have already taken notice,
and the ants begin.