Roots

We had rooted ourselves
so firmly in this little town
you'd think we'd done it on purpose,
but anyone here could tell you
truthfully that we were really
a patch of miss-matched weeds.

Out the window, I see
the whirring funnel dip
smoothly like a dancer,
and I'm still in the kitchen
wandering and wondering in circles,
if we are going to make it this time.

When it's over we all emerge.
to count who is left:
Old Johannas, who was eating peaches
in the front yard like a starving man,
that prodigy who was working
on a chemistry experiment,
Crazy Mags who was drinking spirits
in the depths of her cellar,
a poet who was busy writing,
and me who watched the storm.
That's all who's left.

We deem the numbers just
enough for us to stay.
After all,
tornados don't rip roots,
and we had rooted ourselves
so firmly in this little town
you'd think we'd done it on purpose.