The Lie
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.
--Kristofer Collins
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