Issue Eleven - September 2007

Shelter

By Laurie Junkins

We come together these dark mornings,
you at your work, I at mine,
scanning papers, making notes,
the rustle of pages, clicks of the keyboard,
my tide-rush pulse marking off seconds,
the dog snoring on her bed, cats splayed belly-up
in front of the fire, house breathing a quiet hum,
the patter of rain against the porch roof.

The world cannot enter here. Wind howls
at the door like a raging, red-faced child
but we stay sheltered, eyes turned
away from windows, turned to each other, to our reading,
we let life roar outside these walls.

Let hawks play on the wind, wingtips ruffling,
let the wind rake needles from the evergreens; let the water come too –
the rain, the sea, gray and cold,
swirling around our island, swelling then ebbing,
advancing in sheets, stealing light – these few hours
we sit unconcerned with falling trees and battered sparrows,
time holding its breath, holding back the pressing forward,
the pressing of sky against earth.

Copyright 2007 Laurie Junkins

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