Not for anyone else, of course, and weirdly
Sometimes barely at all for me, the bridge
To the experienced universe that never was,
Never will be swayed gently in a soft storm
Wind generated by a single flickering cloud
In an otherwise blue local sky. What to do
When it's too late and the damage is, if not
Actually done, well in the midst of doing?
I stepped out onto the rectangle of lawn
Edged by Afghan pines, ash, and mulberry,
The stars appearing to be a calm backdrop
North, west, and south, the single cloud
Attempting a small Apocalypse over the cliff
To the east. The air was like the touch
Of a a gifted therapist's hands, pausing
While pressing, as if comfort could be
Imparted the same moment pain contained.
No rain, and no thunder. No wildfires
Candling junipers or ponderosas up high,
Just cloud to cloud lightning and the gift
Of the passage that said, "This was it,
All the balmy turmoil necessary in the land
Of the never lived, happily soon to be dead."
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