I-85 and CHURTON
At the intersection, a Ford van
slices a VW. Restraints deploy,
glass crumbles into green diamonds.
Her head whips like a leaf
in the wind. Sections of her brain
slip past each other, blood seeping
between the layers.
Ice bends the maple; its crown
freezes to the ground and splinters,
a green stick fracture along its trunk.
Gusts blow leaves from remaining
branches, spit snow onto the trunk:
small wet spots.
The storm passes leaving the tree
outlined in white. The wind
rattles the limbs, sending
snow softly to the ground.
Each breath, slower than the last,
until the sheet is as smooth
as the snow’s blanket.
