This wind
blows
through all creation:
these hard stars,
quincunx of Orion,
the full moon ferrying
clouds to the horizon.
In the
cedars
gnarled branches phosphoresce,
foxfire flickers
at the corner of the eye.
After
moonset only these
and illusion remain.
After the flare of a match:
nothing for the eyes to catch
but the coal of a cigarette,
afterimages of sparks
turning a minuet,
the shrouded tent
shaken in the wind.
In the
cedars
sleep will not come, nor
thirst, nor any hunger.
After
the last sound
of traffic, only keening
wind remains, soaking into skin.
After the snapping of a limb,
nothing for the ear to cup
but the sibilance of weather,
only the soft sound branches gather
before they heave suddenly in air.
In the
cedars
thunder lumbers closer.
Lightning spikes the limbs in mid-quiver.
Wind comes hard from the northeast,
then the southeast, then all directions together.
The rigging sings higher.
The tent billows out,
sailing into rain.
Poem ©
Dale Hobson. All rights reserved.
Illustration © Paul Davison. All rights reserved.
