NR Digital

Poetry

by Richard E. Trennert

 

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 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.

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