the storms around us

Can there be more damaging
than the whip of wind
on our roofs and walls?

What rests between sky and dirt
is not depth but our breathing, heavy,
and the regular whisk of debris:

Fur from stray dogs, plywood, broken
tree limbs, galvanized sheets of iron,
tin cans, newspaper front page, etc.

We cannot cry over tempests,
imminent like a plague of locusts
thick for days and nights.

So let us confess with the last
dreg of faith we hold on to, spill
not only the sins we have committed

but also those we have not: the eye
of the storm sees what hides behind
the calm we build around our houses.

We know our own transgressions.
Though secrets wade swiftly
against the current of our litanies

combined, I am a firm believer of rain.
Its urge to fall quiets the noise,
quiets the maddening soul.


[ image lifted from this site ]