Lightning

The poem

The oaks shone gaunt gold on the lip of the storm before the wind rose, the shapeless mouth opened and began its five-hour howl; the lights went out fast, branches sidled over the pitch of the roof, bounced into the year that grew black within minutes, except for the lightening - the landscape bulging forth like a quick lesson in creating, then thudding away. Inside, as always, it was hard to tell fear from excitement: how sensual the lightning's poured stroke! and still, what a fire and a risk! As always the body wants to hide, wants to flow toward it - strives to balance while fear shouts, excitement shouts, back and forth - each bolt a burning river tearing like escape through the dark field of the other.