Everything I could keep safe, 
I did. But fear does not end 
with the storm. It grows limbs, 
traces its stone index finger
from my lip to the back 
of my throat, drags me, quarry, 
for a gem, or a keyhole
to unlock the mountain.  Logic 
abandons the valley.
Dandelions evacuate my heart.  
I don’t want to be a child 
anymore. I don’t want to nurse 
these hysterical roots.
After the storm, the live oak 
never fell, but wore a scar 
which corkscrewed 
the entire length of its trunk. 
Peeled and orange and 
slick, alight in 
the overwhelming darkness.