Stormy Monday
Pat Nolan

In advance of the wind
                      eaves begin to hum
rain’s engaging isolation
beyond
                the dark trees
                the glow of energy consumption
a veritable feast
(for this neck of the woods)
loss of ritual drapes closed
on the rain lashed landscape
copper puddles
                                                shadow street lights
the certainty of the storm
though predicted wind
                               slow to arrive
to take that step
                               across the threshold
and marry sweet bliss
                in the face of rage
that silver surfboard of the spirit
at the edge of a continent at the edge
where I have paved my own way

global dissemination of idea virus
weak echoes of exhausted species
quiet thunder of old Walt’s rumble
puritanical obduracy of Stevens in turn
safest path construed as correct
missed
                mud footed hip thrust punctuation

representing integrity’s last stand trees
their undersides to the lashing rain
as in a giant car wash
                wave after wind driven wave
squalls against the swaying hillside
an endless legion of ghosts

sit to consider the phenomenal
relationship between atmosphere
                               and landscape stillness
in the wake of a rough wind
they who will only bend
                they who will sometimes break
and the immovable edges
carved into the green fullness
then a big gust
                               like a sigh heaved
across the peaks of roofs
freight train passes through again
                                              riding the treetop rails
chimney smoke outlines the shape of air