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.