The Branch Hangs On

THE BRANCH HANGS ON
July 13, 2004

The wind touches the tree
with great fist-shaking force
that would normally move the world
in its wake
yet the branch hangs on--
And every day when I
open the drapes the first place
I look is at the top of
the tree and don't stop until I'm
sure that one loose
branch is still hanging on--
The leaves' rattling shapes
flutter in the breeze,
their blurring colors flank
the monochrome bole that never
shakes and yet
the branch hangs on--
I watch cars come and go
and noisy kids on bikes
and stray dogs wander to and fro
beneath that tree where
the branch hangs on--
dangling above crew-cuts, fenders,
and panting heads of smelly curs
as people peek from pain
and worry through ranks
of windows like fugitives
and still I watch at every front
and shift of scud and gale to see
if yet another morning has a
hold of that loose stick as that
refractory
branch perpetually hangs on--