Fear Of Trees Falling

By Mary Quade

I worry this might happen, the world will listen
to the fulminous wind and I’ll step outside to find it,
bewildered with branches, broken. They have been standing
so long—they forget why. I
could give up this way, collapse, cold—
soft as shame. Such trusting,
to walk through the woods,
our spines seemingly solid enough. I see today a limb
has landed on the lawn—shade makes
a clumsy symbol, unsubtle foreshadowing. I know
about climaxes, about many forms of falling.

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