Musings #75 - Notwithstanding (Plainsongs)


She speaks of omen, cloying

humidity and a lurid green sky,

on a day years ago when

the funnel rumbled

louder, closer, close.

The din above ground – windows

exploding, trees uprooting,

pick-up trucks flying –

while huddled in the cellar,

her parents exclaimed over the ring

her beau had given her that day.

Cranes dance wide-winged,

their warble and bugle deafening.

Then, mated for life, they resume

their northern trek across the sky.

We court with diamonds,

so hard to break. Bend,

cautions a relentless wind.

Her husband builds a sturdy house,

but such things don’t matter much

to her anymore. She knows that,

sought or not,

change wreaks havoc –

knocks down all our constructs,

as if made of straw or small

pieces of folded paper.