It’s the feeling of afternoon storms rolling in
pale skies dimpled with stretch marks, lights dim
as the rooms of stone castles in fantasies, smoke lingering
from candles dragged gingerly through narrow halls.
You can taste the moisture as it moves, tentative
cool, dewy probes enveloping your skin and swallowing daylight—
curtains that gather together like dancers on stage
for the finale, arms interlocked as each leg kicks a little
higher and you can sense closure—that grip on unstoppable
moments of the time you have left to spend or seek shelter before
it sweeps through the sky, limbs bent and leaves ajar, birds evacuating
with a quiet that screams ruinous. The animals feel it,
stronger than we do—an ache beneath the flesh of intuition
that’s impossible to sense when you‘re human. I can feel it
in my hands and in my feet—each sticky breeze of impending
annihilation that even the will of immortals can’t elude.
It always leaves me unable to inhale despite the most air
I’ve ever breathed in my life. Scattered drops begin to fall
with the voices of cicadas singing in the storms of spring—
a sonnet of perception with each gust of unease.