The rising sun strikes curls of bark, now stripped
From trunks, and needles dead have browned the grass.
Indurate buds from tender twigs were ripped
As though new growth was torn apart en masse.
The shell-shocked trees list toward their fallen boughs,
Their heartwood now exposed to air and sky.
Contorted fences, bent but standing proud,
Continue holding green-clad branches high.
In absence of the wind, I hear the scrape
Of rakes that bring detritus into piles
Which then are tied inside a burlap drape
For transport, and then mulching, in a while.
The mulch will bring new growth and keep roots warm,
At least until the next impressive storm.