Before Rain

What is it about cloudy springtimes that prophesy some
tenuous complicity,
some unpardoned infliction?
Perhaps it is the flowers,
blooming silently in their waxy delicacy,
peering with expectation
at the watery gray delight of sky-borne promises.
Is it rather crows,
roaming the spaces between sky and earth,
calling primal, undignified,
the ugliness of their songs
like water filling porous rocks–
an erosion of sound,
an inkblot on the wind?

Is it trees, leafy, burdened with
green and bustling purpose,
fluttering noisily in northern breezes
and then, just before dusk,
are ominously,
expectantly,
silent?

 

Is it the nearness of faces,
awash in the crispness of gray light and thunder
yet unspoken,
bundled to eyes in black clothes,
walking hurriedly,
conspicuous eyes made of a curious haste,
darting every so often
toward the clouds?

©K Paige Medina 19 April 2017

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Window Light

It was a moment of walking when
the light changed,
glowed,
abolished all notion of chill from the wind
and
smiled out from windows like
gloves onto hands.

Fractured by the lines of
spindly branches,
leafless,
the light lifted the world into
a moment of fantasy,
a drifted painted world,
a world asleep in its vibrance,
a world patient in its anachronism.

Walking, we
witnessed this moment,
shuttered up in our coats and gloves like
seals in fat;
we basked briefly in the small sun
of that window-light

and walked on.

©K Paige Medina 24 February 2017