From the storm, twigs as
fingers from the trees lie
broken and strewn across
the lawn.
As toes, the roots, unexposed,
escaped danger buried safely
underground.
As a kid growing up, some
older kids would threaten me,
Hanch, your ass is grass.
(That usually meant a whooping
was coming my way.) I figured
then that nature, like some kids,
could be a damn cruel thing.
I suppose I had it coming though,
knowing nothing about metaphors,
and not being able to see the forest
for the trees. Son of a beech!
And to add insult to injury, in the
summertime, my dad made me
mow the grass once a week.
-30-
Chris Hanch 8-31-2022
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