a mid-spring winter

right now there is a battle in the sky--
a dichotomy of hemispheres, a broken
line splits the two:

one is the smoke of an impending storm,
strong whistles slide through the maze of bamboo stalks
they are forced to samba back & forth, all
the windchimes are struck like tambourines,
and with growing roars from the chicken coop,
the music of the moment
is an unrehearsed orchestra on speed.
the doors on the porch swing wildly,
touched by armies of ghosts, & each creak in the
bamboo treehut declares itself, all is graced with
new kinds of movement.

the other half of sky is peaceful, silent
what’s left of the glow peaks through turquoise sheets,
until it is ****** by the black hole of gust.

the storm brings such a beautiful haunting to the sanctuary.