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STORM by Hilda Doolittle


Hilda Doolittle

You crash over the trees,

 you crack the live branch—

 the branch is white,

 the green crushed,

 each leaf is rent like split wood.

You burden the trees

 with black drops,

 you swirl and crash—

 you have broken off a weighted leaf

 in the wind,

 it is hurled out,

 whirls up and sinks,

a green stone.