In the week before you left, the wind
blew in and threw down ten trees
right out front, lifting them by their shaking limbs
and yanking them out, roots and all.
I didn't know until the next morning,
driving in to find Armando dragging one
limply behind the four-wheeler, as if by its hair,
leaving a trail of flickering green leaves in his wake.
His buddy--I don't know the new guy's name--
hunched near a fallen Douglas fir, leaning on a pick
like he'd been at it for hours already.
If I hadn't seen the tree sliding across the parking lot,
I might not have noticed anything amiss, though
the landscaping does look a tad askew now,
and the great holes of dirt would be a dead giveaway.
There are other trees, though, which seem to be carrying on
the same as ever, giving off the unmistakable vibe of
tolerable normalcy.
You were never a tree, although you've been here
as long as some of them. Stubborn as you are,
no mere wind could have budged you. Instead
you pulled yourself out, twisting and tugging
at the roots, spread and buried far and deep.
You, too, leave behind a hole,
a gap in the otherwise unchanged landscape.
