Poems by Richard Schiffman
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Almost Storm
by Richard Schiffman
From Canary Summer 2019
Richard splits his time between New York City (where he works as a journalist) and New Mexico (where he writes poems and hangs out with friends and assorted other sentient beings).
Like a cart lumbering down
a rutted track
on steel-rimmed wooden wheels,
we hear the rumble long before
the wind picks up, the cold drops
slap.
But this one cracked an axle
halfway here,
spilled it’s load of pumpkins
on the road.
We watch
the tentacles of walking rain
peter out above our
baking plain.
Some far-off zig-zag bolts
as blazed as stars;
a curlicue of smoke
from trees alight.
All stillborn sound and fury
signifying
drought.
© Richard Schiffman