From a Blog Post by Dawn Potter*
We woke to fog and silence—and relief—
Yesterday's rainstorm proving itself more
Than rain: a full-force gale which howled for hours,
Whipping the trees, earth's drenching like a grief,
Scuttling the garbage cans amidst the flowers,
Rivers of water from the clouds' downpour.
The dawn arose serene; if sodden wet,
A polynesian mist enwrapping all
The neighborhood; all mud, mud, mud around,
Yet damage from the storm no cause to fret,
No major tree limbs on the rooftops downed,
As squirrels and birds cavort, and creatures small.
________
*Note: It may be a shabby art, to rework the words of another person, yet that—besides elegies—seems to be the only inspiration I receive nowadays. One accepts the paltry muse-droppings with gratitude; but even better, to be able to read inspiring prose. Dawn Potter's blog is the only literary-related journal I go to, if that is the right word, to check upon the art from which I am exiled—partly by volition, and partly circumstance. Her post from April 17 elicited these lines, the prose there infinitely superior to these iambics, except only insofar rhyme is counted (which it should not be).
We woke to fog and silence—and relief—
Yesterday's rainstorm proving itself more
Than rain: a full-force gale which howled for hours,
Whipping the trees, earth's drenching like a grief,
Scuttling the garbage cans amidst the flowers,
Rivers of water from the clouds' downpour.
The dawn arose serene; if sodden wet,
A polynesian mist enwrapping all
The neighborhood; all mud, mud, mud around,
Yet damage from the storm no cause to fret,
No major tree limbs on the rooftops downed,
As squirrels and birds cavort, and creatures small.
________
*Note: It may be a shabby art, to rework the words of another person, yet that—besides elegies—seems to be the only inspiration I receive nowadays. One accepts the paltry muse-droppings with gratitude; but even better, to be able to read inspiring prose. Dawn Potter's blog is the only literary-related journal I go to, if that is the right word, to check upon the art from which I am exiled—partly by volition, and partly circumstance. Her post from April 17 elicited these lines, the prose there infinitely superior to these iambics, except only insofar rhyme is counted (which it should not be).
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