“Storms make trees have deeper roots.” Dolly Parton

In the hollow, a silver poplar blown down
by Irene, beckons from a meadow.
Her roots face the road and fan outwards.
Like a waving hand, long fingers grasp
for light and carbon dioxide. Some still cling
to the earth, suckling nutrients.
 

Every spring her bare branches sprout
pearly buds. In summer, leaves shine green.
The cool fall turns them yellow, orange, then
brown as they scatter, like a halo around
her head. Winter buries her beneath white
quilts. Only her uppermost twigs left exposed.
 

Always spring returns. It warms the frozen
landscape, softening the bed where she rests.
Altered, she remains unstoppable.
Awake and reborn–she rises.