weather

Let Us Ride This Wave

Keep Us
Peter Bradley Adams 

When the rain set in we had nowhere left to go
so we just stayed in bed while the thunder rolled
there's a comfort in the rain, one that lovers only know
so we lay hand in hand while the water rose. 

Every season will turn til the world is upside down
rivers overflow then go underground
but in the eye of the storm, in the safety of this house
we lay hand in hand while the world turns wrong.

So keep us and keep us, keep us from the storm.

There's a lesson in the rain that change will always come
let us ride this wave and then greet the sun
and though the ground may shake and we’ll think
we’ve had enough
we must raise our flags for the ones we love.

So keep us and keep us, keep us from the storm.
Keep us and keep us and keep us from the storm.

Please

The Word That Is a Prayer
by Ellery Akers, from American Life in Poetry: Column 321

One thing you know when you say it:
all over the earth people are saying it with you;
a child blurting it out as the seizures take her,
a woman reciting it on a cot in a hospital.
What if you take a cab through the Tenderloin:
at a street light, a man in a wool cap,
yarn unraveling across his face, knocks at the window;
he says, Please.
By the time you hear what he’s saying,
the light changes, the cab pulls away,
and you don’t go back, though you know
someone just prayed to you the way you pray.
Please: a word so short
it could get lost in the air
as it floats up to God like the feather it is,
knocking and knocking, and finally
falling back to earth as rain,
as pellets of ice, soaking a black branch,
collecting in drains, leaching into the ground,
and you walk in that weather every day.

Suddenly the Whole House Made Sense

Zero
by George Bilgere, from The White Museum

Photo by Lisa Ann Robertson, used without permission.

First it was five above, then two,
then one morning just plain zero.
There was a strange thrill in saying it.
It's zero, I said,
when you got up.

I was pouring your coffee
and suddenly the whole house made sense:
the roof, the walls, the little heat registers
rattling on the floor. Even the mortgage. Zero,
you said, still in your robe.

And you walked to the window and looked out
at the blanket of snow on the garden
where last summer you planted carrots
and radishes, sweet peas and onions,
and a tiny rainforest of tomatoes
in the hot delirium of June.

Yes, I said, with a certain grim finality,
staring at the white cap of snow on the barbecue grill
I'd neglected to put in the garage for winter.
And the radio says it could go lower.

I like that robe. It's white and shimmery,
and has a habit of falling open
unless you tie it just right.

This wasn't the barbarians at the gate.
It wasn't Carthage in flames, or even
the Donner Party. But it was zero, by God,
and the robe fell open.

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