I have been neglecting my blogs. No essay this time, and no poem by some great poet, though I have one in mind I'd like to beg access to. Instead, a poem from me, written yesterday as the warned of storm hit land near where I live, but by the time it got to me, was gentle as a very angry lamb.
 |
| Diana in the Autumn Wind — Paul Klee, 1921. |
Storm Proof
the winds are fresh today
fierce some might say
each branch each leaf
strains
toward my open window
wide welcoming
cool invisible arms
wander round me
we are both thrashing here
you in jerk and thrust of changing
air
me with words on screen and all
the
churning heart that goes into them
there
you are quiet now
a pause in your suffering
in your frantic throwing off
of leaves stitched cell by cell
across the months
they are going gone
as sure as what I cling to rips
away
in my mere internal tempests
I looked up though
not for metaphor
but for companionship
and as I drank the dregs of your
wild traverse
thought
and what of those at sea
how welcoming
do your arms appear to them
