INERTIA
High glinting leaves,
glazed by the post-storm light,
are hushing dusk
in reassuring waves.
Our lichen-clad
old maple lost three limbs
to rain that felt
like reprimands of God.
Scraggly, and cut
unevenly for years
to spare town wires,
it angles toward the street.
When August cedes
to autumn’s middle age
of rust and squash,
the threat to neighbors fades,
so we will wait,
though soon the driven ice
will trap its wood
in gleaming, fatal weight.
