Perspective

And even after the bones and the pots, the tall earth and its fields languishing,

I'll hear the wind lashing, unleashing a plaintive ululating. You'll tell me it's

angry, something with a hunger that cannot be filled, something that fills up

the stones with grief and bruises, all the broken promises and bad marriages.

What is a storm but the final, angry nightmare, you'll say. I can see it now -

the way the room narrows at your view, eyes like slate in a closed office,

the stale coffee stains on the carpet. Once, I might have believed you.

Now I look to see the hail smatter against the glass frantically, tiny

dancing needles. Maybe it's kind of perfect. Isn't joy also violent

sometimes in release? Aren't the parting clouds, the rain-soaked sun -

all a different kind of new beginning? The sun is eternal but weary.

Even the trees bow in reverence, not unbreaking, never broken.

Maybe it's not destruction.

Maybe the wind is just a voice begging to be heard.