Hot Sycamores all finished stripping bark
To challenge eyes with smooth seductive trunks,
My maples prepping flaming leaves
To taunt death’s frosts with promises they’ll rise
Again when winter’s just cold memories
And giant oak trees pumping up sweet seeds
Not meant for squirrels to feast on acorn meat;
All swept away because the hurricane
Irene could not control the woman’s seal
For TV ratings on her tempest tears.
Sep 9, 2011 7:38:07 pmby auntietk Homepage »
At the time, talking about Irene hitting New York, my native Long Islander hubby said to me, "I hope your friend who lives on that island is okay." We spoke of you and sent nice thoughts. A gesture, yes, but you were not wholly alone, in whatever way these things work. I'm sorry to hear about the trees. It looks like they went down all over in your neighborhood. Thank you for the poem. It's good to know you're all right, and it was only trees.
Sep 10, 2011 12:08:47 amby Chipka Homepage »
I love the fact that poetry survives (and is born, actually) because of various events that are less than pleasant. You create such evocative images in this and I love the cadence of it. Hopefully you've weathered the storm with as little damage as possible. Chicago has gotten the very edge of it: the weak, grotty gray bit that makes everything look sullen. This is a great post. Nice. Very nice.