Storm Damage

The worst storms always hit
after nightfall
when father was away
and mother had nothing
at all to do except fret
at her knitting and measure
resentments by the skein.

Clouds so dense not even
a shaft of pure starlight
could prick the black,
not a feeble glow of moon
to reveal to the eyes
what broken things
lay shattered in the grass.

The purloined shingles
that a snatching wind lifted
away to smash the neighbors’
window, cracked glass, missing
clapboards and broken limbs,
all covered as only darkness lying
over the countryside can.

Some said, Let the damage go,
wait until something significant
is destroyed. Others advised, Tear it all down
but we cannot afford such reconstruction,
too much time lost in rumination,
and so the broken things
are forgotten or turned asunder
by other storms, other tidewaters
and eddies conveying the jetsam
to private burial grounds.

Then there are the irreplaceable items,
the oak another’s great grandfather
planted in memoriam for his lost child,
the cherished pet, the thrashed
and bedraggled flowerbeds,
the deep scarlet heart
of the childhood apple tree
neatly portioned by a stray
lightning strike.

The night is mostly calm and clear
now hundreds of miles
from the raging southern
storms. The starlight strong
enough to illuminate
the most miserable darkness
in the heart but not yet enough
to vanquish these shadows
of cyclone and rain.