A Storm in the Berkshires
For Amy Clampitt (1920 - 1994)
Perhaps it was only a dream, a violent autumn storm
wrawling through darkness and raking the Berkshire hills;
maple and oak riven from deep ancestral earth,
and with them your beloved beech tree beneath
which your ashes have reposed for many years.
Branches stripped of leaves now broken and lying
sprawled across the lawn, bird feeder tossed and shattered,
their seed scattered far and wide in a tempest rush.
Gone, too, the many birds, their homes and fodder
carried by the winds to every near compass point.
The storm has dissipated as I sit silent in your study
where your breath quieted watching your birds on the wing.
Drinking coffee I stare out at what nature has wrought,
a gentle breeze blowing through an open window,
a cadence your body followed to its early extinction.
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