Perhaps day early fireworks
Combusting in spontaneous eruption at dawn.
A pop, then silence
A crack, then several more—
Stirred from spooning pallid oatmeal,
I look up from the morning comics
To see the ancient Spitzenburg tree of life
Falling irrevocably split and splintered.
I wonder: hit by lightening? Absurd.
The sky is azure liquid lit.
Perhaps I hear anticipated echoes of dream-like resonance
Of midnight explosion of sulfured flowers and raining sparks.
Yet there it lies in dew-damp still,
Hollowed trunk emptied out like brittle bone broken,
Giving away in gasping expectancy
Of winter windstorms to come.
Perchance I can be patched together
With baling twine and superglue,
To hatch more of Thomas Jefferson’s apple favorites,
Sweet declaration to fuel his raison d’etre.
Instead chose rotting in fragile finale without encore,
Shattered sans wind, lightening or tire swing
Simply coming for to carry me home
Before winter rips me in half, pulling me up by the roots.