by Ed Hack
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
1 comment:
I really like this idea/image of a storm setting free nature's "dark voice" and undoing a "knot." I also really like your use of word gout here--not used frequently at all this way, that's why it's great--and the sun, "a broken bulb," is a beautifully unusual way to see and describe a half or noncommittal sun.
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