Day 24: Springtime in the Southland

Out on the horizon

the clouds huddle to strategize.

It’s not so far, the horizon;

you know that when you’ve seen it

rush toward you.

Here in the living room

we huddle, breathing our worried humidity.

The television’s urgent voice

needles nerves already sharp

with waiting.

Green, red, yellow blots

burst open like rainbow blooms.

They pulse closer to the dot

that stands for us.

We pin them with our eyes.

When the door beats, bang,

against the lock,

we look up at the whip of

Meemaw’s blueberry bushes

gusting sweet menace.

Green dark falls.

Stillness.

We listen for the booming roar of trains.

Our memories overflow

with branches and debris.

And then passed over.

We titter at ourselves.

The sun comes out to shine

upon the red half moons

our fingernails have cut upon our palms.