Poets' Practice Pad

After the Hurricane

Rumbles interrupt
the heat, thoughts, pain of terror,
and the ocean's speech.

The hunger of dust,
after hurricane passes,
feeds on the tailwinds.

"Take down the shutters!"
My shadow goes before me;
I go with the flow.

Behind opened blinds,
I ponder on elements:
rain revives or rusts;

cold kills and preserves.
Deep within the silent center,
my blood is dripping.

I scan the rubble
and soar with enlightenment
in my wind-scorned house.

The great compassion
isn't an anticipation;
here I am, in it.

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