The sun is a bleeding blur, an unsliced
orange at mold, floating sangria’d in sour wine
on a bent stem of grey horizon banked with
mazy clouds, single eye dull as dead fish.
For two days and two nights
the wind has fought the chimney, jousting
with a lance of dust red air in quick
berserker wheezes, stiff blows, rattling
roaring, grinding the limbs of the stainless steel rose
against the guttering with harsh metallic shrieks.
The trees, the tentative plants on the patio and I
all are learning to live sideways.
For ten days and ten nights
I’ve tried to say goodbye
into the hollow where you were
to let the wave wash over me
to let my heartbeat pound alone
to dig the drifting sand away from your last
stone tablet and read what's written there,
but the wind blows in circles
moans and pelts my eyes with sting
till I give up, open my hand to
let the last grain of you
fly off on its back.
Prompt by Brian Miller:It's a Matter of Choice
Image: Landscape in Stormy Weather, Vincent Van Gogh
chalk and paper study, 1885Public domain via Wikipaintings.org