The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
a sparrow whistles
as the air thickens
and twists itself
into tiny whirlwinds
bits of gutter grass
turn into tumbleweeds
that catch on the postbox
across the street
my heart quickens
with storm beats, pounding
closer, as thick clouds
stick in my throat
the sky breaks first
from its brooding,
sobbing, falling
into thick, wet pieces
I singe fingertips
on the side of a skillet
and consider falling but
a burn is not a breaking point.
as the air thickens
and twists itself
into tiny whirlwinds
bits of gutter grass
turn into tumbleweeds
that catch on the postbox
across the street
my heart quickens
with storm beats, pounding
closer, as thick clouds
stick in my throat
the sky breaks first
from its brooding,
sobbing, falling
into thick, wet pieces
I singe fingertips
on the side of a skillet
and consider falling but
a burn is not a breaking point.