Poem by Tricia Knoll
Smudged to soot, the sky warns of pelting rain – collisions of sound that don’t stop with the counting of one-one thousands and so on. Two cherry-red comforters pulled up to my nose, socks on toes that fled the cold floor. No glass over the screens on the summer-house porch. No hiding from block-buster rumble tumble. Summer twilight gone to cannon-boom over the Brule River where the heron picked her way this morning though weeds. Deaf gods stir aberrant winds, flaunt clumsy dance steps, clap ham-handed smack over our heads. We are the cowards who witness weathered changes, crisis of boom-barrages and skittish salvos that make us weep and duck for cover.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont eco-poet who lives in the deep woods. Published widely in journals, nine books of poetry are currently in print. This year’s are Wild Apples (moving 3,000 miles from Oregon to Vermont) and The Unknown Daughter (27 persona poems in the voices of people visiting the Tomb of the Unknown Daughter).
