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Sanibel Storm Dark grey layers tinged with white race tumble roll into our sight. Far distant rumbles, grumbles, reach the ear. The briny bath lapping at my feet moves with more dispatch. A breathless heaviness engulfs the land. Quickly, closer moves the grey. Palm branches lean and sway. The bright gold orb is gone, night has descended on the morn. Engulfed in violent darkness we race for haven, safe. Behind our walls of glass, we watch. The fury rages on. Trees, a violent rhumba dance. Sharp flashes crack the grey. Lines of foam roll rumble crash against the sand. Sheets of wind-blown liquid hide our view. Pounding rumbling grumbling dark grey layers moving past. The din subsides. A shaft of sun breaks through. A brief respite before the next dark grey layers tinged with white race tumble roll into our sight.
August Afternoon Trucks whooshing by create a mighty wind upon their faces, bending tall green shanks of grass that hide them. Rows of maples holding court along the path, sun and shadow dancing on the earth, cool mossy pads beneath. A monarch weaves and wanders near their den, violets cluster just within their reach, dandelion buttered noses are the rage. Muted put, put, put sounds come calling from some far field. A blanket a basket a kitten trying to escape. Ingredients of delight for two small girls on an August afternoon.
Eyes Words become indescribable funny unreliable. Arms are never long enough. Light is never bright enough. Oh, for the day when these aqueous portals could see. — Joy Erickson
The above poems are from the book, “Finger Prints” © 1997, by Joy Erickson. |