Orphan anvils
The lightning hit so close I could not see
for sure the devastation. I waited, needing
the storm to go away. I feared debris
had trashed the yard again. Instead, receding
thunder marked the end. No guarantee
of safety. This is how we part, misreading
love for refuge. Really all we had
was pleasure, little moments here and there.
Tomorrow you will go and I’ll be glad,
or sad, perhaps. We won’t look back or swear
to write. For now, the sky’s blue is clad
in dissipating anvils, disappear-
ing storms. Outside you pick up broken sticks.
Inside I mourn the troth I could not fix.
| Christine Klocek-Lim |
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