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.
Translations from the English 
Wonderful – Especially: Word on the tip / Of the tongue in a mouth that closes. / Like clouds closing on a patch of blue.
Thanks!
Reblogged this on O at the Edges and commented:
This poem! “Is nothing too green for grief, the trees ask…”
Thanks, Bob.
You’re taking all the good lines again, Jeff. Save some for the rest of us.
Reblogged this on On My Feet.
Thank you!
Reposted this on Facebook.
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.
Thank you, for the follow and for sharing your response to the poem. I hope you find more on the site that works for you–
I love how you capture both beauty and melancholy through these vivid descriptions.
Thank you!