Little hands of leaves

            Prayer like

            On the branch
            Withered from lightning

            The winter was a hard one
            Though not of discontent

            Seasons iamb
            Like the farmer
            Rotating his fields
            Across the street

            I didn't think
            We'd make it
            First Gypsy moths
            Then last winter
            Lightning

            Most get struck

            by something

            And your life withers
            Like leaves in fall

            There were so many times
            I thought I had been struck

            So many times
            I should've been dead

            As when the screen door
            Slammed behind my brother
            In whose hands was a shotgun
            he fired in reflex and I in front

            Years later he would die
            Simply crossing the street

            The minefield in Bosnia we drove through
            Only to see the sign in the rear view mirror

            The RPG round that sailed
            Through the room
            We cleared in Khandahar

            But what does one do in the aftermath
            Is it enough to simply say thanks
            Such genuflection in which direction

            Ah but the branch bears forth its fruit

            Tonight Lightning illuminates
            Clouds like Chinese lanterns
            The limb rasps in the wind
            Leaves cling to its ligatures

            The storm passes through

            Thank you for not giving up
            Thank you for not giving in

Copyright © Richard Ostrander, 2006. All Rights Reserved.