On the day of Epiphany
the sky floated dirty grey sponges,
called storm clouds by some
which wrench and wring overhead
my tin box called a truck
for the second after-
noon, awaiting the bell, it begins to flood.
El Niño, they all point, name, and blame-
not the children though, who don't know
him yet and squeal at the thunder in de-
light-ning, claps all around.
An ominous sound to
a sitting truck, quaking the floorboards rumble,
but I am grounded, in technical terms.
Rivers run along the roads,
gurgling gutters are choking
on the leaves and it is okay,
I had nothing to say today,
anyway. Listening to the lights
blur and sob, struck dark as night
at two-until a conflicting flash, a
sneaking streak, the epiphany speaks,
Time is not everything.
The wind is whipping
laterally, bending palms
like cracking knuckles
lumber joints that prefer
dancing with Saint Ana and yet
a seasonal storm is all winter needs
to feel right
on Time...
Pouring my heart out into the rain,
watching all my words spool and eddy
washing away, skipping over school
and strangle the drain
plundering prudence
scatter the slated soggy students.
Composed 1/7/16.
Image by By Eliud Echevarria (This image is from the FEMA Photo Library.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
