Prairie Storm
–but of sea half is earth, half lightning storm…Herakleitos
_
Bargaining faith for sleep, you see light stir at the window, white
hissing above the crow-knuckled elms, exposing the wet furrows
–
of the seeded fields cooling after the longest day of the year.
The turning. Air thickening electric, forks bulging with spark. Imagine
–
an axe behind the clouds, splitting the moon apart for stars. Always,
there is sacrifice. Rising on sea legs you watch the aspen convulse
–
under buckled air, and you ride; water, wind, light thrash
and you ride the swell, hollow as a gourd, a cup emptied
–
of any purpose but this: to be drenched in stupefied gratitude.
Always, there is a gift. In the morning, oak leaves
–
drying like tears on the field. The sun and your footfall, new.
A killdeer, shrieking.
Lorri Neilsen is a poet and essayist who lives and works in Nova Scotia and Saskatchewan.
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