The Storm

A storm struck down the old willow
last night, and morning saw it laid
out on the lawn. I touch the tangled
branches where a child I knew lived
in their green world and flew
to its shelter on summer’s wings.
An empty bird’s nest cast aside
like a tattered cap bids good-bye
to the boy who rode in innocence
above the familiar yard on rough
barked boughs. With his pie-plate shield
and barrel-stave sword he galloped
through a wood of unaccountable terrors
and one still lives with me and moves
like wind through dry leaves, whispers
the hours, as I remember my brother
at arms felled by a storm like the willow.