Monday, April 26, 2010

August Hue Thunderstorm.


The trees stand tall as skyscrapers,
Bow down gracefully under a thunderstorm.
Raindrops fall below; tears splatter the ground
Like unforgotten rain, thunder sounds
Like the beat of drums.
I am not here, I am not moved; my heart
Beats like drums, fast and steady.
Houses stand tall against the storm;
Bears and rabbits hop out of their hiding places,
Make beds behind old shrubs.
Nature is catastrophic, cataclysmic; a farmer
Shells out a truckload of eggs from the hen house,
Sells them to the county store.
A woman yells at her son, who is carrying home
A bushel of apples; an old maid tries on a new outfit.
She hates living in the country, hates being poor,
Misguided, and judged; but she loves country
In the wintertime, when the snow falls prettily
On the ground, and the old woman down the street
Gives her a ripe new plum and a basket of
Wash cloths she knitted herself.
The storm lessens; the wind heaves in and out,
In and out, sounding like a harmonica.
Clouds slowly melt from view, into the August hue.

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