After the hurricane in '62
my friends and I discovered an oak tree
newly dead. Its roots had broken free
a cave of warm earth, which I thought I knew.
I stayed away until the snow renewed
the purity of what I couldn't see.
The cave was still alive, a mystery
beneath the snow, where warmth and worms showed through.

      That boy is long years gone. I have never
married, nor bought a house, nor kept a friend
for long. What I have loved, I have severed.
The rain, which shatters the snow, also sends
us floods, so caves cannot be seen forever.
The mud conceals the dead roots' broken ends.