Just last week the trees
crashed down, massive
bodies flailed and sprawled
all over the road.
Their stumps, now slashed
but solid, squat like monks
along the devilstrip.
I think I want blown off
at the trunk like that,
to become a blunt edge,
learn to stand square
without shoulders, confine
my reach to ground.
I should be mindful the tempest
will come, for sure, when it comes
Meantime, height and breadth
offer whips and drapery, dances
stunted growth cannot.