Crows and a Rainbow
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Warm mist blows through the winter trees.
Sensing Spring in the distance, sparrows
and finches start their trilling.
Flocks of crows approach far off,
tossed like torn black scarves of sorrow.
Late-morning sun breaks through,
a moment of silver opens the heavy clouds.
A rainbow to the darkened north
shimmers, a luminous promise
(or is it just a myth?)
the colors of God, glowing
in the winter mist.
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January Thirteenth
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A Gift
The rare January thunderstorm
blusters in—raw wind, cold shadows
darken the thawed fields.
Naked limbs of trees
toss and clatter, grieving
as if wishing they had leaves.
My eyes are mesmerized,
the scudding turbulent skies, a sea
of clouds churning great black ships.
Suddenly, the very nimbus I am watching
right there–a jagged wire of light
strips the darkness, tears it open—
pure electric fire, electrocuting faster
more fierce than any word, its sight
shuts my eyes, a primal fear
and disappears. Silence. . . .then the crash
that cracks the fragile dome of air
to bits, and hits the hollowed ground:
horrific boom, the hallowed bomb
of war. A mush of rain and gusty hailstones
strafes the soft surrendered land.
Like all storms, it’s quickly done.
Now the low sun peeps out to look, and flings
a gleaming fire of colors to the east.
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–Quilla
Ruach 333, by Quilla 