by Lee Kiblinger
AFTER THE STORM
I bent to pick up sticks after the storm,
wondering if the old oak readies for its raze.
It wears lifeless gray and longs to shed,
making palliative peace with the breeze—
while down the street, gusts cut
through your panes as you hold the thin
limbs of your love, toppled by squalls of cells
wrecking the pith beneath his skin
dimming the frail of flickers within—
so I bow before your bend
and wait as your storm yields
to the grafted good
of immortal oak
in divine mend.
LEE KIBLINGER
Lee Kiblinger is a mother, teacher, and poet from small town Texas. Her work can be found in The Windhover, Solum Journal, Clayjar Review, Penwood Review, Heart and Flesh, and several others. Her first collection, All the Untils, was published in May 2025 by Wipf and Stock. Find more of her poetry at www.ripplesoflaughter.com.