A wild, late winter wind assaults our home,
Throws punches at our screens throughout the night,
Streams into cracks like soldiers at the Somme
who leap from trenches spoiling for a fight.
We huddled in our bed as shingles flapped
Above our heads, adhesive giving way;
The maples on the border swayed and snapped,
Yet ceded only twigs in the affray.
A pallet from the woodpile sprouted wings
And flew full twenty paces toward the road;
The tarp, freed of its yoke with gusto sings
And threatens to its other bonds explode.
Fast air cuts the ceasefire like a knife
And brings otherwise dead things back to life.
Image generate with DreamStudio
Thanks for writing this Jean, reminds me some of the Christmas Truce at the front lines in 1914 (I think it was). Poet Paul Muldoon wrote a poem to pay homage to the occasion. Nice imagery here, an antithesis of the Truce occasion. Also, nice sonnet form! Bob
Nicely put.