The storm catches on the door.

It’s a good sign, a surge that’s more than breathing,

that blows away dirt from reliquaries,

and directions from their careful signs.

It’s near speech and near trembling,

sky bringer fate crowning from its centre,

if there was a centre rather than millennia

of waves, segmentation, volcanic chemistry.

And all this chlorophyll blowing around,

that does not understand solitude

but certainly vortex and rage,

the made and unmade clouds, constant phantoms

and caprices, the moving walls.

There is no void.

There is future,

no matter which way breaks,

the branch we find fallen on the new plants.

It’s not a lucky escape from death, rust, abrasion, or bad thoughts

as I revise the possibilities within milliseconds.

A second doesn’t describe any thought.

A thought doesn’t show how I might want to run.

Time has nothing to do with what I hope to find

trembling in a gauge or written on a screen.

What passes is passing, and will pass.

If anything is eternal it is the motion,

as I step out to sweep what has gone and come.

The leaves make a noise almost as if

I was waiting for someone.