Thundering Pitter Patter

At first it blows in through the front screen door
The leaves rustle and swirl upward

Will it be a mile wide?
Come in the night? In the dew-laden pitch black of summer’s wonder?

The sky darkens, but, “Well, it’s eight o’clock anyways buddy”

No reprieve
No night shift of wakefulness

Is that what makes these old windows drip and melt?
The pounding, beating, sideways-driven, gust-hurled storm drops?

This is MY LAND

Rolling and gorgeous
Shrieking and terrifying

Soul wrenching

Barren and fertile
a miasma of nature’s obstinacy

And the tracks rattle and clank
Even a mile distant

Trains, always trains, in this, my forlorn, my God damned

my land

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s