The storm brought tree branches
down, twigs to the park’s entranceway,
where a sign welcomed us back from
the forest and the path

along which we had carelessly wandered
hours ago now. The downed twigs
brought relief. They were calm,
unlike the ones the previous night:

Those were panicked twigs,
and being wet like us—from above
and below—were falling then hugging
the mossy rocks near the rapids in the river,

struggling like jockeys
for the strongest of holds
with each twig rooting only for self,
as though we weren’t.

But by the time our party emerged from
the forest-thicket—no longer lost—
we were of one mind, and the twigs on
the manicured lawn—now littered with brush—

spoke the same inclusive language.

first published in Ghoti