Above the tree line, a cloud bank edged in indigo.
Once, a woman unrobed to show the scars she bore as she ran down a road long ago, a child with her mouth open, ash falling from the sky.
Water thunders in every ditch. A freight train wails.
Ships have disappeared into the sea, tugboats, frailer craft. An airport is submerged in water.
So still, as if the world were tensing for another blow.
The ground is mostly bare again. The wind is salted with fine flakes.
And if time is the enemy, what is the name of the wind that blows
fine sand into my eyes?
Poised in the hollow of the wave, the fishermen huddle. You could count their heads, smooth like beads on an abacus or a prayer chain.
And after the blows, the softening.
The gnarled parts often contain water, hardened through the years.
So you say you know the Chinese character for “squander”— but I want to know first what there is to spend.
A hand raised in greeting is a cup, a well, an oasis.
And yes, every poem is about love.
Scientists tell us there are fine tremors in the earth every day that we do not even feel.
Think of so many of these in any given moment, especially the ones that feel completely still.
—Luisa A. Igloria
03 11 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.