 |
| at the cabin in the woods in a storm |
Reading poetry aloud in a thunderstorm
to calm the dog, warm against my thigh
and quaking, muscle, frame, the very ground,
And when the rain stops running down
the panes, we'll jog home in shining,
strong in sweet regarding,
Breathing deep the petrichor,
the old light in our eyes
turned feral.
—with a phrase by Maureen N. McLane
