We pull off at the side of the highway in Somewhere, Maine looking to sing to the snails. There's a deep shoulder of gravel here, so we assume it to be a parking lot. The sky and the water and the ... [+]
There was a wilder
tinge to the air—purple-
scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
filigreed
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman's hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
and rushing
from the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.
The pines wave back and forth, thrash
the sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.
To be of the storm, to enter it.
To be entirely air.
tinge to the air—purple-
scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
filigreed
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman's hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
and rushing
from the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.
The pines wave back and forth, thrash
the sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.
To be of the storm, to enter it.
To be entirely air.