The Big Black Storm

by Renwick Berchild

Windstorms have battered my life for days, treble the rain,
tintinnabulation on the streets, a highway roaring like a sea of heaves
of grimness, mornings glamsy, murdered pink some dawns, strewn
with hoods and caps and umbrellas, and the grey swallows up
the goldfinches’ wings, the stellar jay sky, it’s hidden somewhere above.

These past nights, slicked clean and shined like new black shoes,
squeaking through the hammers’ chorus: Ting slap! Shicka-shick bloosh.
Pladda-dap-dap-schlup-tinga-pling-pling-pling-plop-plop-plop-schlup-sloosh –
the drops go on and on like an ode, dripping into the nooks of depths,
filling recesses to overflow, the dimmest days underwater, so I drown
in reading, make nest in the papasan, piling thoughts around me in swaying
stacks of ruminations and writings; a highrise I build in my living room.   

(Fog, in his indigo galosh, steps the trees and barking dogs, I hear
his squish, in the rattling of windows and ringing, creeping into the swards
to slide his gloved fingers, to parade his mirages, bend the lecturing air,

and all the timber and leaves metamorph into a menagerie, and beasts
come lumbering, near upon my small lights but never arrived, so I hold
my blankets as armor, carefully cook pasta and sip wine, while the massless
animals fling as shadows, those nebulous faces sloping in the waterfalls.)

All hail – the Big Black Storm – yowls of gale and rivers runneth over curbs;
all hail the unrelenting pour of a crying cumulonimbus beyond consoling.
The tatter and patter, the gasps and inhales, the sudden capsize of the noise
plunged into a moment’s quiet; so I take a chance to breathe, my ears
stinging in hums, chattering in the soundwaves like teeth in cold, I take
the glum barrenness that has stripped the world, give up my flames –

they are doused, as are my feet, so I must adhere to the prattling rain,
sit in attention to the emptiness accompanied, and acquaint myself
with the bite and swallowing of time robbed of me – the clouds rake tears
over my glass panes, spread their bodies over stoops, lounging cats
purring – I accept the darkened days; nature’s melancholy moodiness
is touching the ground with fires that I know, come spring, will rage,
Earth’s silvery mane will be rewound, and look young again.   

3 Comments to “The Big Black Storm”

  1. it never pours but it rains sometimes…

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