Farm Poem #20

Each time the wind arrives
Howling from Chicago,
Bent on bending skyscrapers,

A towering sycamore on the farm
Responds by raging
In consent, tearing off

Great chunks of itself,
Muscled limbs rippling as,
Clutching twigs to its trunk,

It strips back the ivy,
The bark of its skin,
Revealing its rib cage, organs,

Tearing out its
Three wooden hearts
And hurling them,

There! There! There!
For all the wind to see.
“Yes wind!” the tree roars,

Bowed, torqued,
Tortured, groaning,
“Oh, mighty wind!”

Agonized, not knowing
What else to do,
It suddenly screams,

Ripping off
Its own splintered head,
Holding it aloft, triumphant,

Before crashing it,
Thunderously,
Against its sodden feet.

“Take it, terrible!” the lipless
Mouth cries. “It’s yours!
Oh, I hear you!

I hear you!”
And, hearing it is heard,
The wind softens, fades away,

Because that’s what
Winds seem to want—
If they want anything.

And the sycamore?
Not as old as the elements
But no stupid sapling,

The tree soaks its silent roots,
Subtly sending up
One green shoot, then another,

Until—there! Below
The freshly washed sky,
The always laughing sun,

The tiny top of its mottled head,
Hidden safe, hidden close all along,
Begins to grow, slowly, once again.

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