Our April morning peace was ripped—   
A boom and then the dark. What now?
Outside the squirrels began to mourn.
We know how lightning strikes have clipped   
These trees, blazed black trails to burn
Down mountain houses. Anyhow
This was no bolt, but just a tripped

Transformer. Our whole world shook. 
Out back, years of briar and vine
Have overtaken junked rolled fence   
And coiled barb wire that overtook
The last pole planted here since   
Georgia Power stamped the sign
Listing its history. Let’s have a look.

Lengths, years, and tree type: “Ches’n’t.
Cypress. Cedar. Pine,” painted
With creosote ninety-five
Years ago, this pole shouldn’t
Have been here that long, a live
Wire going where? Unacquainted
With our house, which was not

Here for another forty years?
The creosote has oozed like grief
To blacken the pinewood pole’s base.
This wasn’t lightning strike, but tears
For trees skinned, for nights, days,
Waiting to shed light. So this brief
Darkness, like a comma, appears

To remind us of how we fail
To honor roots and wild grape vines
That grow so slow on trees they seem
Like dropped cables, and steel barbs pale
Copies of cat briar. The man from the team
Stays on the ground, looks up and finds—
The pole has grown a stilled gray tail.