ten-year storm

A terrific storm came through

a ten-year storm, the farmers said

they were busy putting the cattle away

the new calves had got loose and were bleating behind the tool shed.

People don’t go out in pickup trucks

in the middle of a ten-year storm

to see the moment the lightning decides, a gathered slingshot

to pinpoint our thousand memories, to erase such dear baggage.

Willy calls Rooster and they hook up the truck

drag the propane tank away in time

the fire crews come and park

and it’s too late for the house so they all watch it burn.

Then the insurance people come

look at the pile of corrugated tin

Wilbur used to sit there every morning eating cheerios and 

needlepointing verses on fabric; he’d frame them as gifts.

Grandpa’s crib still in the attic 

the drywall had split and the cement had split

and the house was in pretty bad repair; just a house

but its gone now, and the land sits wet and undressed.

There are my memories tumbling about 

into the pasture and the ice-skating pond 

past the place where my sister got engaged

No walls left to hold them in. At least they saved the barn.