Thursday, April 22, 2010

Above.


At the faintest rumble, rumoring
thunder, you pull off your headphones
suspiciously, like a dog remembering
an old voice, the noisemaker
and his repeated song dies, artificially
flat, as the clouds sing their play.

2 comments:

  1. I should have read your poem to my toddlers today.
    I am eagerly waiting for our first storm, the faint rumble on the horizon, swirling layers of multi hued greys, start of random large drops eventually exploding into a torrent, hail bouncing like popcorn, tree branches bending unwillingly, then the slow soft ebbing starts, the rhythm becomes random, the branches ease up in their ballet, clouds part, sunbeams explode, rainbow arcs across the sky, and the robins sing as they gorge on worms. Yup this is what I am waiting for. If you would be here we could then jump in puddles:-)

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  2. There is a poet in you, Miss Sue. :)

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