Beyond the pines, the purr
of twilight perched
in a field shallow.
Rows neat of grain green, new,
unfurling under walls old, twisting
in unbelief, that wait
for the touch of rain on sides open where
nails were,
where timbers braced
and bent.
Sky burled in hue mottled and swath.
The quickened broth of storm
is stirred,
turned to pitch and boils,
breeds thunder pealing across
the ocean tumbled’s open urging.
The echo of Winter on days of Summer,
of anger on the breath of sin.
Between each cumulus weeping,
the argument of grace
and thunder’s collision – despair and faith.
Then, the ease of the break and the
cabin twisting, awash in rain.