Storm (attempt)

A glowering sky, looming in

slate gray insistence

On my lap a roughened box once

containing tools of a roughened

trade practiced by a roughened

hand, here that joint missing

in the making of that chair of

woodsy design loose gnarled and

swirled with bark, foreshadow

of the hands to be

in the roughened box a peace

that forms itself in a faultless

cream-smooth brown, soft as

petal, graceful as soaring and

which my dog has caught, carried

proudly in her follow-me-everywhere-smiling

mouth. And now peace is

wounded, a small pink

blotch smaller than a

newborn's fist, smaller than

a dime, but which has castrated flight.

And so we drive, holding peace

in my lap, through a

glowering sky away from hands

sacrificed to table saws, away

from histories incomplete, in the hope

of finding flight's grace once again.

//

Susan

07 Aug 06

Storm