Beyond the Storm

Tree-top boy smiles down from his throne
atop a cedar crown below the storm;
his hands stewed in amber sap,
grip lock-tight to creaking limbs
straining with his weight and the dancing bluster.
The tree’s caress is a clement tenderness
long lacking in the shackle-grey prison looming below;
a cold home that makes the storm seem warm,
or at least alive.
A mother’s cries pierce the wind
and the boy looks down to the storm of her eyes
and the bandage on her hand,
a bloody reminder of the upset Lego fortress
and shattered hobnail vase that sent him thundering for the storm.
Tree-top boy smiles up to the welcoming storm;
his mother’s streaming eyes plead to pretend
that everything’s fine, but a boy in a tree is beyond fine,
beyond her eyes, beyond the storm.
In his swaying cedar crown he is the wind,
and the grey-blue embers of his eyes
are the skies.

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