Storm

It wasn’t just the wind
Spiraling moist sprays
And flurries of ash across
The Carpet.

Nor the trees,
Raining tangled branches
On our little roof all night and
Bending over domed glass,
To Twist gnarled fingers
Into dark, invisible threats.

It wasn’t just the water,
All of that liquid,
Pouring from the sky,
Dancing across the road,
Tumbling recklessly down
Trickly hills and splashy ditches.

It was mostly the darkness,
The mean darkness
Which crept under our bed and
Filled in the ground with inky gray,
And made the candles
Sparkle from the mirrors and our eyes.

It was mostly the blackness.
It swelled with wailing notes,
Hid the trees’ complaining fists,
And drowned the moon
In shadow.

Thankful

This time of year
It’s so hard to get out of bed
In the middle of the night to pee
Because the toilet
Is down the path,
Behind the yurt,
B.Y.O.T.P.

But last night,
I stumbled out of the door
Into an indigo forest,
Gilded in silver light.

I caught Jack Frost
With his paintbrush
Poised over the papery edge
Of a dying leaf.
He froze in place,
Except for a polite tilt
Of his chin and
A modest shift of his eyes

As I relieved myself
Behind him.