We do not often have *a storm*
in March, the puff of light
behind the blinds,
the sound of rocks; how it
softens the still
snowy vernal equ
inox with hope. It is
yet dark but light
ening, still night
but harking to the dawn.
A weaving of grey
now hur
ries
the paper carrier's
step (he bangs the screen
door and stubs his

toe on a rise in the
walk), flushes rabbits
from the skirt of dirt
beneath the spruce
out front.
Now's the time
to pray. I fancy my
heartbeat too quick
and
------wonder which vessel has been narrowed by a plaque.
Pray for your child,
your coming incontinence, your
quaking chicken
------heart; pray for that. I turn and leave a hollow

------in the bed where once
a trail of dreams
smoked in my senseless
head.
There
------is so much damaged, so much
to rebuild. Now's the
time to pray. The room
begins to fill with light
that floods the hall and
makes
a rill running down the
stair. This morning the
anger is gone,
dropped like a cloak near the door.


2008 - Dyer