How Doesn't That Tree Fall

How doesn't that tree fall?
Look, it split in two,
right and left,
straight down
the trunk along the heart,
bisected.

Broken
with the grain -
Like it was destiny
or doom to part,
like a bull
at the offering;
divided, right

across the
annual rings
as if you tore
every other leaf
from a history, to make
two versions, each
with half the truth;

 black on one side,
red on the other,
flaking into
separate trees.
Conflicting testimonies;
still standing, proving
only uncertainty.

It was the lightning
that did it.
It came out of nowhere:
a perfectly predictable shock,
to illuminate the whole
in unity before the
second rending crack.
See, how they stand
together!
One should be bent
in shame,
to see the other give way
so quietly
in obedience to flame.

But, red now reaches
round its barking bandage,
and black is bound
to bear new color
in bright relief,
like a smile
in a season of grief.

Conversation unfinished,
illumination undimmed,
two hearts
healing: and a history
that won't be ended
and can't be told
in parts.