THE TORN, TATTERED AMERICAN FLAG LIES ON MY

NEIGHBOR’S  DECK NEXT TO THE TWISTED SECTIONS OF

METAL THAT ONCE WERE HIS GUTTER.

 

TORRENTS OF WATER GUSHED THRU THE ROOF, THE  STEADY

DRIPPING OF  WHICH I CAN STILL HEAR BETWEEN THE

SHEETROCK AND STUDS.

 

PEEKING THRU THE REMNANTS OF RIPPED

ROOFING SHINGLES , ARE THE RAFTERS AND JOISTS, EXPOSED

TO A SUN AND SKY THEY NEVER SAW BEFORE.

 

THE REAR ROOF,  RISING FOUR FEET UP THE RIDGE LINE,

WAS TORN OFF FROM  ONE END OF THE HOME TO THE OTHER.

 

AROUND THE CORNER, CARS  LAY CRUSHED BY TREES THAT

HAD STOOD PROUD  FOR  GENERATIONS,  NOW RENT UP BY

THE ROOTS AND LAY LIKE FALLEN  SOLDIERS ON A

BATTLEFIELD.

 

THE MUSTY ODOR OF MUD, DUST, WATER AND ROOTS SMELLS

DIFFERENT FROM  ANYTHING I HAVE  INHALED –

AND LINGERS IN  MY LUNGS.

 

OUR LANDSCAPE AND  OUR HOMES  HAVE BEEN

TRANSFORMED  INTO SOMETHING THAT IS SURREAL AND

UNRECOGNIZABLE.

 

THE BEWILDERMENT AND REALIZATION THAT A TORNADO

CAN CAUSE SUCH DEVASTATION –  IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE —

UNTIL ONE IS WITNESS TO IT.

 

BUT JUST AS MY NEIGHBOR RAISES THE AMERICAN FLAG AND

SECURES IT IN THE BRACKET — SO WILL OUR TOWN RISE AND

RESTORE ITSELF,

STRONGER THAN BEFORE.