by Ashley Christensen
Age ten, in our front yard after the storm,
tree roots grasped the cotton sky.
Brother stood at the edge of the swollen hole,
213 trees fell in our city that day,
we touched the defeated friend
lying useless in wet grass.
Small sister watched through the screen door.
Mother was working,
father still working
straight through the storm.
As dust settled into the corners of our earth,
three kids made dinner
and swept the remnants from the porch.
Two weeks later
mother brought home a sister
in daffodil.
We went on.
The four of us.
Minus the tree.
Ashley Christensen writes poetry and likes trees. Sometimes she likes to write poetry in trees.