There's an art
To the interruption of lives
a gentle knock that deceivesof friends stopping by with
honeyed-news; and they sock-
shuffle to the door, speculating what
passing pleasantries will be
exchanged on the other-side,
only to be jarred by foreign features
and a shameful glimpse at the unexpected
The woods are the book
we read over and over as children.
Now trees lie at angles, felled
by lightning, torn by tornados,
silvered trunks turning back
to earth
-Wyatt Townley
