Storm-love

men die at sea
but that's no deterrent
to fisherfolk;
men die in bed
and yet there is sleeping
and love-making.
that's an old fishernan's tale,
these are wind-swept days,
not days of gentle breeze
but vessel-wrecking days
days of sea-loss
and land-grief,
days when trees bend
and it's too wet for dust to trade
insult or joke with the wind.
And yet
there was a leaf that turned and turned
and turned and turned
on earth and just above.
maybe it was a whisper
or a prayer
something ancient
slipping through fingers
and staying in heart.
strange for a stormy day,
i thought. 
no, didn't complain
and not complaining now
either.

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