for John Grochalski
Here is where the wind wrapped its hundred strong fingers
around the throat of her grandfather's pin oak and ripped
it from the Ohio clay, where the roof of the house
buckled beneath the forced embrace. It's Independence Day,
or very close to, and the damage brings tears to our eyes.
The milk-white sky and this small yard, prowling
with crows, pay no mind. It all just goes on. The laughter
inside the house sounds brave from this distance. Nothing
like the sound of the world holding its breath.
Maybe the mosquito crawling up my hand is the right companion.
Maybe this sun getting hotter by the minute has something to say
if only I'd just listen. It's possible these days will pass
like all the others with only us taking notice. Everything
my eye falls upon couldn't care less. My eye lacks the resolve
of an early summer storm. All I do is watch and hope
for the best. This is the lie I try to believe.