It's quiet at ground level.
Currents stir the tree tops
in air so sultry that it pools, like water
in a hidden grove,
and this is how we feel
the storm coming.
A slab of light that is almost-half moon -
a knowing moon that sees
through my layered veneer -
sails the scudding sky,
in silence that waits
to be broken.
Why can't I extend
this moment of peace
into the house
where he walks, restless;
into the space between the quiet
and the coming batter of wind?
The storm runs to us;
no rain, but wind,
crying like driven nails,
and the distance between us knows
this howling voice;
its bitter chill,
and the black ice covering sadness
that lingers
like deep-running springs.
I turn back to the house
as shreds of cloud cross the face
of that old, cold moon.
Just try to imagine it -
a quiet pool reflecting green moss
and the sheltering bower
of storm-bent trees.
|
