HE IS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING
At first crack it split limbs, blasted stones
from fences, knocked me flat to the grass
like a beast, heaves tightening, spilling
iron. I should not have been in the field
so late. Bolts diffused behind cloud
flashed a cold noon against the night sky,
every jot of the oaks clear as doomsday,
pushing their leafage forward till the fringes
brushed over my ditch. Between flashes
that rendered me blind, in a stroke of white
that would make a murderer’s beard glow
electric, the trees ignited in a burning web.
Even now, I can feel those blazing threads
stitching me into wet loam while the oaks weep.
Dawn pulses out of the martin’s throat, and
work begins, swish of skirts, chime of spoons.
No choice but to fold into the batter, shut
the night’s lid firmly, turn the heart out,
pick up the morning and try to retrieve the days
my night of unknowing scattered like a box
of spools tipped, spinning, lost through a crack
in my history, such a waste of good string.
fiction poetry "fact" photography