Indeed strange weather,
Em agreed as I transmitted
from an asphalt spring water
lily pad among broken
Easter trees.
Plastic lilies will remember
this wind long after we’re dirt,
years past my last breath,
a whisper empty of the beautiful
truths that shook treetop leaves
and almost reached my ears.
And an airport road, where
buzzards land more than planes,
will echo the Khmer melodies
and snake guitar from an April
moon when I swerved around
vagabond deer, but accelerated
headlong into my ghost days.
“This is how a lake should begin,”
that’s what I’ll tell Em when we
talk about the water-filled hole
left where a tree couldn’t take
what the sky had to say.
“Who needs dynamite and dams,”
I’ll likely slur, “when you have strange
weather and buzzards in the wings?”
drunken poem bodega 
F***ing brilliant! Every time I read one of your pieces, I’m further convinced of your poetic genius. There are so many quotable lines…”an airplane road, where buzzards land more than planes”…”the water-filled hole left where a tree couldn’t take what the sky had to say”… I could feel the fear, power, dread, helplessness, and awe that this type of weather conjures. It has a timelessness that will be relevant “long after we’re dirt.”
Rita, I never did thank you for your very nice comments here. Thank you, thank you. And I really appreciate your taking the time to visit my blog and read my posts. I always am very grateful for your support and feedback. Thank you, again.