dead wood

the hurricane blew through last Friday,

shook things up.

more hype than harm

unless

it was your house

the oak tree chose.

 

Hermine, male or female?

unisex? 

its identity

compliant

with vain egalitarian edicts.

 

yesterday’s debris, once projectiles,

now harmless

fodder for compost,

saturday’s chore:

rake it

now.

 

stems, sticks, straw, once significant,

lie lifeless in irrelevance,

litter the lawn, layer the Zoysia.

dead wood,

life’s last statement.

 

the Rake,

methodical and impersonal

like time,

slowly sweeps clean,

performs last rites,

no tears.

 

the Past, Yesterday’s life,

lies strewn about in random stacks,

still and silent.

i lean on the rake, wipe off the sweat,

and look up.

 

from lofty heights above,

the oaks and pines

observe with indifference

the wake below,

being burdened less

by extra weight.

 

the wind, wild and wanton,

blew through, will blow again,

not if, but when.

something will be lost

something will remain.

 

everything…

tenuous

like

Life.

  

~ Bud Hearn

September 9, 2016, St. Simons Island, Georgia