The Edge of the Hurricane
Wheeling, the careening
winds arrive with lariats
and tambourines of rain.
Torn-to-pieces, mud-dark
flounces of Caribbean
cumulus keep passing,
keep passing. By afternoon
rinsed transparencies begin
to open overhead, Mediterranean
windowpanes of clearness
crossed by young gusts’
vaporous fripperies, liquid
footprints flying, lacewing
leaf-shade brightening
and fading. Sibling
gales stand up on point
in twirling fouettés
of debris. The day ends
bright, cloud-wardrobe
packed away. Nightfall
hangs up a single moon
bleached white as laundry,
serving notice yet again how
levity can also trample,
drench, wring and mangle.
