When the sky decides to marry
the earth, it will be winter. The snow
will be the rice thrown
by heaven's congregation of onlookers, angels
casting their trumpets aside
to sprinkle handfuls below. Snow
is silent this way; the summer thunderstorms
are brass instruments, the lower notes
vibrating the windows of every house.
It is understood that summer
is a woman demanding a divorce, the earth
a lazy man turning his back
towards the static-filled television set
of the sun. You must stay inside
those days, avoid trees.
They are hairs split
by crooked, strangle-shaped fingers
we confuse for lightning.
William Soule, Utah, USA