THUNDERSTORM         

The sky is still dark

The streets are wet

The lawn glistens

I hang out my door looking

A slow rumble from east away

And then the western sky opens

And the sun, just setting

Radiates golden light

It is the last light

And the golden radiance lasts

Long

Long enough to fill me

Before it dims

To the chant of crickets

                                                  

The world is safe

For awhile 

THE OLD HOUSE

The house at first was a simple white Cape Cod

small and unassuming amid a wood

of scrub pine typical of the neighborhood

where they grew happily and were spared the rod.

But flesh gave way to time and wood to sod,

dormers were raised and the old jackpine that stood

beside the house was cut--lives that should

had flowered and blown and others gone to God.

But one remained behind, fixed and alone,

a symbol for the others who had gone

that kept them tethered like an anchor stone.

Year after estranging year the sun

wore her down till she was flesh and bone

and her letting go was death for more than one.