By Pavel Chichikov
A storm last night snapped off a sycamore –
Three tons of rotting, flying wood across the trail
I walk along at least a dozen times a week
Three tons of shrapnel taking off my head
Except no war, no howitzer or bomb –
A cold front and a hundred years of growth
What am I doing here so long on Earth,
Who asked for me, what is the purpose of
My being here except for love?
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