A landscape changes in uprooted seconds,
before coffee, moments before
shades go up on the sun.
I was in those branches
when they were steadfast
and evergreen beneath my grasp.
No wind nor god
could fell this tree.
Beyond the lament of fallen limbs,
there are roots,
shadowed on white boards of home,
stark as wondering:
If this pine was bent to touch the ground,
then what endurance is there for me?
copyright d. dixon