It went over
in the great snow.
The winter that
killed New England’s
will to live.
Four feet wide
and a hundred up
slammed sideways
down the hill.
Branches crushed
bark ripped raw
insect carrion.

I pass its base
on my daily walk
past the old stone wall.
Roots clenched
tight round a boulder
as if to say:
I will take you with me
when I go.