In the memory the day is quiet,
That day the big wind blew up the valley.
Yes, the kind of wind that explodes.
.
I remember the booms and lights.
Raked by creaks and groans of a straining gale,
Sifting through the always darkening skies.
.
I forgot the look in my brother’s eye.
There, that same light, against dark skies
Telling me, pulling us, outside
Into the fields, where wind upon wind
Would pull us along a day-long voyage.
.
Off in the corner of the pasture,
The last of the haystack.
Still tall, now a monument against all this.
Unmoving, challenging.
.
There we could climb to the top,
Unfurl a big cloth and dream
of flying to the stars, while crashing down
To the soft, loose hay below
.
In the memory, mom’s voice reaches out across the
crashing and howling, to bring us back home.
Shaken Rain 