After the Storm

In an angry storm

our immense oak

toppled to the ground 

with a rasping groan. 

Its body sprawled across the path,

branches crushed or pointing skyward at unlikely angles,

Roots now vertical, a huge disc of solid earth torn from the ground.

‘We must deal with this,’ I said, ‘I can’t get by.’

I took my bow saw,

its jagged teeth

barely made a mark.

So I walked around,

past the damaged trunk,

past the mutilated branches,

so many times 

that I wore a new path.

Now I barely notice

as I circumnavigate

the slowly rotting carcass.

This is the new way.