Heavy curtains
of heaven
drape our
orderly town.
Fir and cedar boughs
pound the roofs
as winds howl mad
as chained hounds.
Whoosh, crack, thud.
Down comes
lush branches,
sharp needles
and cones.
I shudder
to think
of their force
on my bones.
If in another life
I hadn’t this home,
with its shingle-stacked
ridge and foundation
of stone,
I could not watch
God’s wrath
while sheltered
and warm.
But simply
due to
pure luck
I was born
in a time
and a place
where I can
witness the world,
immune to
the whims
of chance and
charged storm.
Though deep
in my skull,
near the nape
of my neck,
sounds a small
longing to
rush into
the wreck.
Some distant voice
that grunts,
oohs, and ahhs,
wishing and wanting
to live back
where the odds
favor the quickest
and most
cunning man,
where lighting
bolts reign
and cold heaven
pelts skin.
pm poetry 