Gale Warning
Cornered in the big house, all night all Four in one room on the Lee side thinking to windward at The gale of the decade and Our dead pine . . .
Two days later it was We found the ruins of the Blenheim Soughed in a black cascade, Spitted, stabbed in the sod.
Fruit-loaded tree, that rendered Me once so richly, why as I lop Do you fight like a trapped cat?
Gnarly twigs lash, every bough Slash up back from the ground, every stump Jag, jab at my shin. Why as I saw The most golden of summer's branches, I have to watch For the torque in its fall?—the ton butt Poising to slug my neck like a rabbit.
Cutter, do not whistle or think about a book, be Wary to the last snick.
No wind, deep frost, thick mist.
Keep away from the pile-ups: Take the slow road tonight, edge To the green apple-log burning.
When from your glass and book, you hear The wind fondling the woods, remember Four times the height of a Blenheim, The pine-tree's finger.
Also those houseless On whom the sky rains Not wood but oil and fire: a decade Returns the jungle. JOHN HOLLOWAY
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