• This is the moment when shadows gather
    under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
    This is the center of thunderweather.

    The birds are quiet among these white leaves
    where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
    under the elms, the cornices, and eaves--

    these are our voices speaking guardedly
    about the sky, of the sheets of lightning
    where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily

    into our lungs, across our lips, tightening
    our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
    about the sky, of the sheets of lightening

    that illuminate moments. In the stark
    shades we inhibit, there are no words for
    our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark

    of things we cannot say, cannot ignore.
    This is the moment when shadows gather,
    shades we inhibit. There are no words, for
    this is the center of the sky.