This is the moment when shadows gather
under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
This is the center of thunderweather.
The birds are quiet among these white leaves
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
these are not our voices speaking guardedly
about the sky, of the sheets of lightening
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
Into our lungs, across our lips, tightening
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
about the sky, of the sheets of lightening
that illuminate moments.
In the stark shades we inhabit, there are no words
for our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
Of things we cannot say, cannot ignore,
This is the moment when shadows gather
shades we inhabit, there are no words for
this is the center of thunderweather.