We do not often have *a storm*
in March, the puff of light behind the blinds,
the sound of rocks; how it
softens the still snowy vernal
equinox with hope. It is yet
dark but lightening, still night
but harking to the dawn. A
weaving of grey now hurries
the paper carrier's step (he bangs
the screen door and stubs his
toe on a rise in the walk), flushes
rabbits from the skirt of dirt
beneath the spruce out front.
Now's the time to pray. I fancy
my heartbeat too quick and
wonder which vessel has been narrowed by a plaque.
Pray for your child, your coming
incontinence, your quaking chicken
heart; pray for that. I tum and leave a hollow
in the bed where once
a trail of dreams smoked in
my senseless head. There
is so much damaged, so much
to rebuild. Now's the time to pray.
The room begins to fill with light that
floods the hall and makes
a rill running down the stair. This
morning the anger is gone, dropped
like a cloak near the door.
 - 2008 - Dyer