Songs after the storm
The woman storm shrieks about the hills,
though the lost child in nowhere in their folds,
no lightning light will show the way to the truth.
Cymbal-crash in the clouds
with the military brashness of destruction,
the pink of dawn a memory,
birdsong of first light a warning,
but I listen for the music of the trees,
the leaf-rustle in a cool breeze,
the murmured song of the stream,
for the anger and grief to pass.
In the lull, the trough of the waves,
I listen for the bright trills,
the flutes and strings of the birdfolk
to sooth the pain, sing tomorrow.