» Poetry
Value-added
“Tree-huggers refuse to admit
Mother Nature can be
a bitch, or very blind
or simply is,” my father insists,
though he hikes
the Appalachian every weekend.
I’ve never gone with him.
“We are always at the mercy
of our environment,” he claims,
tells me he outraced a prairie fire
in the Sooner state, more hurricanes
than he can list,
though he’s always been tempted
to get caught up in some disaster,
miss delivering whichever speech
he’d been on his way to give. “Nature is,
I suppose, efficient,” he says, a word
that shows up more than any other
in his writing except “trash,” “waste”
or “recycling.” His boss will use
his rhetoric against him.
He and I argue about anything,
spring, its length, time
and lusciousness after a brief cold spell
as opposed to a short orgasm of color
after a long thaw. Storm-chasing.
A tornado will turn and stare
right at you, rain come down so hard
you can’t see the shoulder, but once,
and I believe the sentiment’s appropriate,
he saw a triple rainbow with my sister,
who shot an entire roll of film
beyond the Panhandle.
They were alone. Dramatic, yes,
even at home, even after a long night
of ordinary thunder and wind,
a tree uproots and smashes
my parents’ bedroom.
It must have all night tossed
violently in the storm,
and they slept through it,
except that once they woke
and saw it swaying, and swaying
was still the word they used
in the morning to describe
it was an accident they lived.