by Timothy Birdnow

3/10/2024

In the darkness of the deep sylvan night
silence as thick as the velvet in a coffin
black shroud that robs my weary eyes of sight
quiet so deep one could hear the drop of a pin

then the gusty breezes blow the craggy trees, the murderous limbs grasping
I sit on my porch by dim yellow lantern light glow,
the whisper of pleas of long lost souls, their groaning and their gasping

They beg to me to tell their tale
to give voice to supplicants long in jail
the wind in the trees makes a low sad thrumbing
the rising warm breeze says a storm is now coming

The overcast night is devoid of stars, darkness congealed and the world is drowning in their gloomy tance
the Ozark hills like a potters field, annoyed at my intrusion into their eternal penance

then far to the east the sky lights in a flash, the air is dead silent despite the angry display
no rumble, boom nor crash, as the skies bleeds its cries
in a moment the glow's gone away.

Again and again the dark spits forth it's anger
momentarily lighting my eyes and my porch
in the dim yellow glow my lanterns rock to and fro
momentarily lit by God's torch

Or is it the Devil? who can tell? It's so bright and so distant
a powerful sight ripping apart the dark night, a bite in my sight, full of wrath and insistent

I marvel at the distant storm as our ancestors may have done
sensing that somehow a warning had come, like the muzzle flashes of a killer's cold gun, seen at the last just before the prey runs

I watch from my porch the distant display
and think to myself that it's so far away
but the flashes grow brighter, it's coming my way
and nothing will stop it or make it delay

There's a storm coming and nothing we can do
will stop it's violent course across the dark world we knew
just like Adam and Even when long ago they first sinned
the light stalks the night and now it reaps the whirlwind

some may escape on a rickety cabin porch, the glow of the torch lighting their isolated cabin in the sod
But it's a terrible thing to fall into the hands of a living and most angry God
and soon the night sky meets the sting of the rod

But storms come for a moment then flee from our sight
they cleanse the dark land, then the morning is bright
who are we to know the mind of He who decides?
we may seek but not find, we're just along for the rides

the storms wash us clean and renew all our hope
they then color the land green, scrub us pink as with soap
the storms and the black will give way to the dawn
all our fears and our pain disappear and are gone

The sprites that dance on a warm March night
for the man on the porch to amuse and delight
May flee for a minute, a day or a year
But sooner or later they return in good cheer.

Posted by: Timothy Birdnow at 09:27 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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