January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
Alice Cone
Against This Longing for Storm

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.
Return to January 2001