an eye that takes
two weeks to open
how to sleep through that
unwavering gaze
round as an infant
indifferent as a cane toad
to some appearance
of planetary conjunction
much less any hypothetical
end of life on earth
where the other eye
now dreams storms
what faceless bureaucrat
wears so gray a uniform
gray as the paper mask
inhabited by hornets
molded in a spiral around
its single dire orifice
a sump that swallows
all assumptions
an eyehole that shuts
like some toddler god
thinking we’ll all just vanish
under sheets of rain
frog pond
reincarnated
as a puddle
enormous dead oak—
so much more sky
in the puddle
lone firefly
only the puddle
returns his blink
fear not
storms are on the way
little puddle
The dark, seasonal pool at the top of the watershed has dried up, so where do I go now to let my eyes relax and envision possibilities apart from the doom-scroll on my phone or laptop?
cracks in the mud
100% chance
of chaos
38 years old
the one-acre blowdown
is all grown up
how big was that wind
twin basswood trunks
still stretch wide
one beech limb
has grown back into the tree
the storm was too much
they heard the wind
a half mile away
the hollow’s own howl
25 years
since the snow that brought it down
measured in moss
after the chainsaw
the silence
big as ever
windthrow
ice storm
blizzard
where are the canopy gaps of yesteryear
one small bird
to salvage all those logs
winter wren song
What would the wind do
without the daffodils’ yellow
hoopla of blooms?
Tree leaves are still
packed tight as gunpowder
in their slim cartridges.
When the wind brings
the rumor of a storm,
only the rhododendron turns pale.
one million beetles
hiding under
one million leaves
locust leaves
skeletonized by beetles
hiss in the wind
already brown
before the storm toppled it
black locust limb
a leafminer beetle
lands on my thinning scalp
black locust grove
A rock raised up
by the roots of
a wind-thrown oak—
nothing unusual,
just a dark red
chunk of bedrock
gripped by a trio
of roots with black
cracked bark—
I saw it had been
washed clean by
who knows how
many storms & still
held aloft, as if in
some parting gesture
toward the celestial
The reminisce of your storm still shook
In my soul,
But I learned to take shelter
In my own heart.
Blinded and stumbling,
Grabbing anything,
Dragging everything,
Onto the ground.
Laughter echoing,
Voices whispering,
Drowning out everything,
In this small town.
Broken and shattered,
Mind doing cartwheels,
A hand to hold onto,
Is nowhere to be found.
A sweet embrace,
My last mistake,
A comforting smile,
A deathly grip.
A world or two.
Colours new.
Raging seas.
Swamped trees.
Shining light.
Creating might.
Crashing storms.
Banishing warmth.
A flicker or flame.
Calling my name.
Summoning rain.
Unearthly pain.
Dying hands.
Tornadoes of sand.
Flesh rotting.
Stop creating.