Thunder crashes into her dream, rouses the woman from bed.
Letting the backdoor slam, she steps into a yard
haunted by bushes covered in black shrouds.
Lightning knives the sky, gales torture oaks,
worst are tree tops flailing like Medusa’s snakes.
Banshee winds warn of death nearby.
The deluge begins with stinging drops –
a Brailled story of flood and dark.
Awakened now to midnight,
hard to go back to sleep.
Sandra Kacher comes to writing poetry after years of hearing about the inner lives of her hundreds of therapy clients. She brings an ear for music and a heart for beauty to poetry that she hopes shares the ways she is moved by nature, human life and all the flotsam that catches her eye. She is shaped by intimations of mortality and most of her work bows to impermanence.
See more of her work in 9.4 and 8.3 and 8.3