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Recovery


The leaves still dance
on branches that have resisted the winds
of last night's storm. They claim
a right to joy
in the midst of devastation.
The tree that fell across a neighbour's driveway
lets the light in through its intractable width;
and for a time I dwell in the shining symphony
of those rain-drenched sundrops.
A truck groans its way
over the urban marshland,
its tires squelching tracks
into the gravelly mud, roads undone by
the downpour and the deep pockets of wily contractors.
The offending barrier
gives up its theatrical protest
as it is lifted unceremoniously
onto a rusty steel bed--
twisted branches all, muddied trunk whole, crushed fruit bittersweet.
And those leaves, glistening green--
they're still dancing.






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