Signal No. 3

This entry is part 21 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14

After the first onslaught of wind, hail the size of golf balls, we heard the radio alert. Is there a safe room beneath the stairwell? Is it large enough to contain the plants seeded at all the children’s births? We would need to loose them under the light of a yellow moon, then anchor them with ivory amulets. Nothing in the dispatches tells you how you must learn to sit still, in the dark, until the mind grows quiet: until the eerie searchlights of danger diminish into soft two-note voices and the rain can be ordinary again.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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1 Comment


  1. “Is there a safe room beneath the stairwell? Is it large enough to contain the plants seeded at all the children’s births?” I love this poem. What mind can we grow to help the rain be ordinary again.

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