Sounds like wing feathers
brushing screens and eaves,
and then a single cello note
spidering through the casement
on this gray dress of a day, full skirted,
embroidered with blowing leaves,
crisp-crinolined with dry corn stalks.
I love a storm, I love a storm, I love a storm.
But not for the grief torn through a far-off house—
violent, stubborn, deranged.
I love it when I forget—seduced
by a smoking, rolled up sky,
black leather trees bending
in whispers and cracks,
humming suggestions just bass enough
to believe that another poor soul
might be abused by this power,
but not me, surely not me. Not today.