At mid-morning, the sky grows dark. Rumbles of thunder over the noise from the interstate. A small, white petal flutters down.
The Morning Porch
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
At mid-morning, the sky grows dark. Rumbles of thunder over the noise from the interstate. A small, white petal flutters down.
Sense and notion meld
where sound is sight,
and stillness is moving.
It completes an oxymoron
for the day: What crack
of thunder and flash
of lighting would slice
this mid-morning sky
when the delicate petal,
small and white, finally
reaches the black, soggy,
and grass-mottled ground?
—Albert B. Casuga
This poem, subsequently entitled “A Still Point” is also posted with a minor revision in my issues-blog http://albertbcasuga.blogspot.com/2012/03/still-point.html
and in My Facebook Notes
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Wonderful contrast between the dramatic storm and the delicate petal floating down.