1945
The winter trees offer no shade no shelter.
They offer wood to the family of wood.
He comes in at the kitchen door, waving like a pistol
a living branch in his hand, he shouts
“Man your battle stations!”
Our mother turns to the kitchen curtains.
He shakes the branch, a house-size Great Dipper
points North over the yard:
Can it help? How about
the old dog, thumping her tail. Whose dog is she?
How about the old furnace, breathing.
Breathing the
world: a flier, a diver,
kitchen curtains, veterans, God, listen kindness,
we’re in this thing like leaves.
