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The Storm

ISSUE:  Spring 2008

I’m going over to see what those weeds
By the stone wall are worried about.
Perhaps, they don’t care for the way
The shadows creep across the lawn
In the silence of the afternoon.

The sky keeps being blue,
Though we hear no birds,
See no butterflies among the flowers
Or ants running over our feet.

Trees, you bend your branches ever so slightly
In deference to something
About to make its entrance
Of which we know nothing,
Spellbound as we are by the deepening quiet,
The light just beginning to dim.


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