That’s what a friend and I named you
as we sat under the dome of your
branches one mid-pandemic afternoon,
admiring your high, arched ceiling—
fluttery, green, glittered by sun. I
rejoiced to have you as a room addition
a summer home.

Then, as if to mock my claim, a tempest
forced its way in. It shook you
so fiercely that hundreds of your
winged seedcases parachuted down.
Some landed in our hair, others
flavored our ice cream, embellished
the clothes we wore.

Was this an omen of worse storms
to come? One year later, terrifying
straight-line winds shattered your crown,
scattered your branches, and cleaved
your trunk. You could not be bandaged,
sewn back together, restored to health.

Now I stand on the dome of earth
covering your remains—roots too
deep and wide to grind, still drawing
moisture and nutrients from the ground,
not knowing where to send them.

Later, through windows in my den,
I sense your invisible presence
at the heart of my yard. You vibrate,
seem to hum, even occasionally glow.
I grieve for you more than you know.

Georgia Ressmeyer (Sheboygan), a three-time nominee for a Pushcart Prize, has published an award-winning poetry chapbook, Today I Threw My Watch Away, and two full-length collections, Waiting to Sail and Home/Body. Her most recent chapbook is Leading a Life (Water’s Edge Press, 2021). Please see georgiaressmeyer.com for more information.