after the storm
The trees are children tonight, full of noise,
and running through the house - prying windows,
chattering below stairs, pulling faces
and teasing the shade's yellow daub of light;
they scatter petals across the table,
the tiled floor: a crimsoned peony march;
the back door rattles - I think it's you
and almost rise, before I remember.
Night swells and snaps. It roars down
from the attic, like the roll of the sea,
sweeps its tantrumming offspring out
through the yard, back to the wandering forest;
in its wake, silence drifts, dry as tinder,
into the quivering drum of the house;
walls fold around this new emptiness,
trying on its shape, as I fold around mine.
Listen to Angela read the poem.