Aftermath

Athens, Georgia
September 12, 2017

When the outer band of Irma arrived, we lit a candle 

and rode the night storm in a soft cinnamon glow. 

By dawn it was done. We emerged to the scent of snapped limbs 

and mangled trees that line the road in tangles of green. 

The new world is unwell. Unripe mast is harvested too soon. 

Green acorns cling to the crotches of white oak leaves. 

Small nodules bead the broken stems beneath the leaves of a southern red. 

Let them return their tannins to earth.

In the forest, root balls of red clay mark new clearings – 

another northern red oak down, upended by weight and wind. 

Saplings of green ash begin their sprint to light. 

The pungent air is ripe with rot. 

Blue-green needles of a loblolly stand mingle with conelettes of shortleaf pine. 

They spike the nose with an acrid clean. 

Green gum balls litter dirt with a latent grace. 

Still air is sweet, but laced with death. 

Here in the gently rolling Georgia hills, 

her new growth woods rising over red clay, 

her ragged fields recovering from cotton, 

the forgotten graves of warriors and slaves – 

our world is a shattered, fragrant place.

We live in the wake of weaponized storms.

Beyond our borders I see bodies littering beaches, 

and the tortured eyes of a lost child wracked by what we unleashed. 

The wind has softened. 

Light slants through scudding clouds. 

Death sparkles in shafts of sun. Some things will never wash clean 

so we light a scented candle and sing.