What is a storm? Xylem or phloem?
When lighting moves closer and we turn to go and
the lake says, no, don’t leave me I’m always
abandoned, I always remain on my own,
remanded, planted where nothing can grow.
The night is short and the clouds are low,
and where could I shelter? Nothing is right.
The water is crossed and recrossed with each thundering strike,
of a poem, of rifts in the fabric of time,
of words that unite, and recoil,
and sink to the bottom to sit in the soil,