Storms of June

I have forgotten how to listen,
a well within gone dry,
memory loose like fluid
lost in karstic metaphor,
and an echo of something
falling into something
that I cannot place.

Thunderheads above the end of twilight,
a granite scourge slowly explodes
over sackcloth mountains
billowing in ghost-light—
how can air sound like stone,
and stone dress itself so?

The rain departs on tiny feet,
leaving a song in gutter-sluice;
my children, adrift in sleep,
conduct the orchestra of storms
through the alleys and palaces
carved in their dreams,

and the night,
ripened with fire and water
rides through this house,
feeling its wonder snag
through these broken renderings.

(c) Seth Grube