There’s
something to the colour of the sky
Above the clouds
that renders blind the eye
Toward the beauty
of which it will find
On its return
to life among its kind.
Through stained-glass
windows sunlight multiplies,
Cathedral forests
strike their wind-blown chimes,
Whose looping
incantations softly rise
From stooping
branch to constellated skies.
A tempest rising
from the spirit’s last
Contorted cry
before the cracked ship’s-mast
Is felled beneath
the force of nature’s gasp.
My hand holds
hard a storm within its grasp.
