The Wednesday Morning Post
This poem is a prize winner in the 2018 Desert Exposure Writing Contest.
It fell, unheard, during the thunderstorm,
under a massive purple-grey cloud cell
with its relentless, drenching downpour.
The elder oak, still leafing from spring,
but leaning, brittle, weakened by mistletoe,
supersaturated by the torrential monsoon rain,
shaken by the cold wind sheer,
succumbed to gravity.
Suddenly too heavy to stand upright,
the ravaged tree lay down on its side,
in angle of repose against the hill,
its lower trunk cracking, splitting apart,
as if with a final, dramatic sigh.
And so death will come,
handing over the passkey
to the impassable, deftly
urging the transitional journey,
by wall of rain, lash of iced air,
the softening of stable ground,
the sure embrace
of the spinning Earth.