To the east is subtropical fern
Whose shadows imprint the trails to the springs,
More ancient than the forests themselves.
To the west of these too-deep predawn pools
There are rolling fields and oaks,
Green ladies trailing gray lace who shade
The horses grazing there.
Far from northern cities I feel the rain
Blasting the roof where I have sought cover
From the lightning which, oddly enough,
Never strikes the horses who have turned
Their backs to the storm.
I look out at the sudden dark
As it moves toward me and the lashing
Ropes of light as they try to strike the sky.
It moves toward me, then away.
I wish to measure it and understand its weight.
But it is gone.
I wonder at the force of its wave
And the intensity of its light as much as
I fear the age of the forests
And the depth of the springs.