My wit was stolen
in the shattered morning --
darkness robbed me of meaning
with its long, empty knives.

I search my pockets
for its incandessence,
turning out only absence
and a deep crushing sigh.

In the distance I see
others laughing, tossing
wit back and forth
like a shuttle **** at a garden party
sparkling, forceful, levity, bright.

I brush myself off
and walk towards them.

The winds howl through the valley
galloping across the fields
gusting into town

knocking down garbage cans
rattling grain silos

shoving highway traffic
stealing people’s hats

blasting tractors
slapping around limbs and branches

knocking live powerlines to the cold winter ground

interrogating clattering palm trees
threatening creaking, aged oaks

They’re just outside the door, now
whispering, moaning, vehement,  loud.

All these grand metaphors
build a distance
from the world.