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.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Above the roar of the creek, a flock of goldfinches whistling:
- Still Life
- (poem temporarily hidden by author)
- Year’s End
- [hidden by author]
- Why Not
- By Ear
- From blaze
- Panis Angelicus
- Cold Country
- Perpetuum mobile
- Aubade, with no lover departing at dawn
- from Ghost Blueprints
- Signal No. 3
- Private: Sixth Luminous Mystery
One Reply to “Signal No. 3”
“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.