In the history of ever,
      my older daughter says one November evening,
             reversing the well-known idiom, opening
its syntax like a star exploding in waves

                     of ever—
      as in, not constrained to this world, this galaxy, this universe,
             an ethereal time without beginning or end,
beyond the reach

                     of our material minds like the shadow of God
      grazing the face of Moses.
             I wonder if ever could be robust & tenacious, maybe tangible,
like the Elm

                     pushed northward by the F-3 tornado
      that just missed our house last spring
             (I’d heard its engine roar in the nearby field).
I now walk toward it,

                     this tree, with top lopped off,
      then further hewn. With leftover limbs & roots
             exposed, cleaving to soil half-
heaved from the earth, it somehow bears

                     leaves still-green even after the hard
      freeze three days ago on All Hallows’ Eve.
             I can’t resist so I pluck
one serrated leaf, its topside rough

                     & beneath, smooth to my thumb’s clumsy
      touch, both sides pulsing with a resonant voice
                           rich in its veins: I warn you,
I am alive for the last time.∗