SOUTHERN STORM

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

…