The storm came today.
I waited in the garden for it.
Wind rumbled around the house
talking through the gate, the fence,
the bamboo chimes we bought,
banging against their separateness:
nothing more than the ghost
of unreported rainfall in the air.
Pay attention, said the gate.
Do not be angry, said the fence.
This is what you came for, said the road.
You are a body, said the rain.
The wind chimes banged together
as when a river flows out
under low-glinting sun. A tear track
reflecting dusk, mirror white.
No water between its banks
Stir the curry pot
warming on the stove
while passing to get wood.
Torch in hand, stars are familiar.
Arms full, into the warm.
Building the fire, small bits first,
a mite crawls on kindling.
Lift one piece out.
Everything’s already burning.