The Transformation of Storms
The book has been there for maybe, two years.
Perhaps a bit longer.
Left out before a rain, that first rain
that crinkled a few pages and swelled the paper,
the slightest deformity. Still usable as a book.
It was not my book. I have no idea
what tales it tells, what wisdoms or follies it contains.
And not knowing, I left it
to face the next rain, and the next.
Sitting peacefully on a wicker table
at the back of the porch, protected
against gentle rains, susceptible to storms,
a rusted doorknob, rusted then, rusted now,
laid carefully to mark the page last read.
Storms are no respecter of protection.
They push themselves into nooks and crannies,
laughing at roofs and windows and doors,
working their dark magic, one way or another
always transformative, in this case,
from words to art, captured in the moment
before the end arrives.
About this poem
The picture was taken on my front porch a day or two ago. I keep thinking that I should take the book and throw it away, but it has the wonderful historic ephemera look and feel, and so, it stays.