Yesterday Mother Nature was having another of her recent temper tantrums. First it was record rainfall and mudslides in the first part of November, messing up our drinking water. We just finished with that and a dump of snow, enough for 6 or 7 years for us, landed, bringing with it many broken tree limbs and downed power lines and outages for many areas. We never lost power at that point, but three of our trees sustained serious damage. We were just rejoicing at the departure of the snow and lamenting the eventual demise of our lilac, when the rains returned, with wind, again taking down tree limbs and power lines. This time we did lose power, and our awning is now missing a panel, but I don't think there was any further damage to trees here, though the drive to work was littered with Mother Nature's prunings. Which reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years ago after a similar event --
The Morning After
A single track
as through fresh fallen snow.
Not white,
nor wet, nor cold,
this impromptu carpet --
green and fragrant,
Mother Nature's prunings.
She has been busy this night,
wrestling with trees.
Some,
unwilling
to accept her discipline,
stood their ground too firmly.
They stand, still -- drunken,
with roots reaching for the sun --
or snapped like kindling,
like so many match sticks --
for all their brawn.
She has wrought havoc with
humanity's toys, too --
chasing traffic lights,
loose gates,
unsuspecting awnings;
untying power lines
like so many shoelaces
for us to trip on.
She left her trimmings
where she would --
no matter that the street
was impassable,
or the bridge unsafe.
When did she give her permission
for those obstructions, anyway?
And now, in the blue, blue morning,
she still has the water to work upon --
to chisel waves,
as from soapstone.
The Morning After
A single track
as through fresh fallen snow.
Not white,
nor wet, nor cold,
this impromptu carpet --
green and fragrant,
Mother Nature's prunings.
She has been busy this night,
wrestling with trees.
Some,
unwilling
to accept her discipline,
stood their ground too firmly.
They stand, still -- drunken,
with roots reaching for the sun --
or snapped like kindling,
like so many match sticks --
for all their brawn.
She has wrought havoc with
humanity's toys, too --
chasing traffic lights,
loose gates,
unsuspecting awnings;
untying power lines
like so many shoelaces
for us to trip on.
She left her trimmings
where she would --
no matter that the street
was impassable,
or the bridge unsafe.
When did she give her permission
for those obstructions, anyway?
And now, in the blue, blue morning,
she still has the water to work upon --
to chisel waves,
as from soapstone.
