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