Summer’s last thunderstorm


Summer’s last thunderstorm

Nineteenth of September, nearly supper.
First the trees start whispering questions.

Leaves swerve to ground like practice seasons.
Is nothing too green for grief, the trees ask.

The answer scrapes the top of the sky.
Bulldozer uprooting forever for the new estates.

Is it over? Almost. It’s almost over.
Then rain, soft, like em-dashes

Between invisible words, unspoken charters.
Whatever they are building up there

Has been redacted already in the unseen
Document of the future, what’s left

Of our uncomposed lives. Word on the tip
Of the tongue in a mouth that closes.

Like clouds closing on a patch of blue.
The thunder has forgotten its voice

Is summer’s, and throttles like a biker
Down a darkening road.

10 thoughts on “Summer’s last thunderstorm

  1. t.s.wright

    Read via reblog by Robert Okaji.
    This is a lovely poem. “The rain soft like em-dashes.” Is my favorite line but I enjoy how the visual is taken from those em-dashes to “redacted” to the document of our future then “uncomposed” (lives) which draws the mind to sheet music. It’s a wonderfully complete visualization. Then the word on the tip of the tongue in a closed mouth. The entire poem feels like a theme of possibility and missed opportunity. I’m not a huge fan of poetry but I love when I find a piece I can really experience the texture of. Clicking follow.


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