Glass Learns the Weather
The first fulguration stooped to kiss a shard,
Not the thunderhead that boasted of its flame;
A broken bottle in an orchard yard
Held one white filament no night could claim.
The beech unlocked a thousand argent leaves;
Each fern leaned nearer, listening through the rain.
A kestrel loosed the wind from both its wings;
The granite seemed to soften in the plain.
Then lightning missed the heavens altogether.
It entered quartz, wet lichen, antler, thorn;
The river halted underneath its weather,
While moss recalled a coastline never born.
An oak drew brightness downward through its roots.
The fox stood still beneath a hawthorn's breath.
One acorn opened, showing not its fruit,
But rings of summers harvested from death.
When morning searched the hills, the sky was gone.
The birds flew lower, as though nothing changed.
Only the broken glass kept filling with the dawn—
Until the sun looked in, and turned away.
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