Tuesday 2 December 2014

a storm - poem




This is my kind of weather: cold,
windy, the type that sends leaves knocking
on my bedroom window, only to be laughingly
denied admittance--I would shut those panels
to have the pleasure of feeling
the brewing storm from the other side of the glass.

Inside my shuttered room, I now feel
a muting of the present's nagging sounds,
the prickling tug of the irreconcilable past, and I find
joy in this torture. I am back in my old school,
walking in a shower sans umbrella, dampened hair curling
against splashed white clothing. I call

and he answers, mingling laughter and rebuke
in the warmth of his cracking teenaged voice. I wish
for the thousandth time, each time this scene
has called me back, that with rainwater as his glass
and with darkness and dampness contrasting, he would
read the claim of soul's kinship in my eyes.

But it is always too much to hope for. Outside the window,
the rain had ceased falling, and I am here again,
immobile, awash with stagnant emotion. It is
during a transitional state like this, a pause
between showers, that we parted--sweetest
and most bitter of all misunderstandings.

M i n a h a l k i t a     p e r o    'd i     m o     a l a m.

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