The Lightning Tree

Was I Always This Way?

Had I become crooked,

or was I always this way?

The lightning tree bares

its frozen branches

a brittle-limbed memorial,

taut arms veining a clouded sky.

We don’t remember the fruit it bore,

the shade it offered,

the life it held.

Only the beauty of what is broken.

Had I become crooked,

or was I always this way?