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.