The Coming Storm

the youth in her head

hears a dusk wind

rousing the poplars

sounding like the sea

and sees a silent flash

in the distance

where gray gauze

shrouds the horizon

in warning


electricity down

home seeping black

she snatches candles

which flitter like fireflies

in the old family room

where a radio's tubes

glow live

like little musicians in

their lacquered cabinet


and now

rocking on the porch

watching the rain pour down

soaking all with its purity

she draws out twisted hands

washes them in sky water

and feels with her bones

the encroaching rumble

of oblivion