a thunderstorm

nobody watches the rain sift down
on fields of wild grass,
nor the old woman inside the house
who shakes little black bugs from her rice,
apron dusted with flour,
eyes the bluish-white of milk
that rings the bottom of the cat saucer.

the cherry blossom tree outside
is as gnarled as she, the same twist
in its trunk as in her rope of steely hair,
the same indifference
to the accelerating roar
of the black-bellied clouds’
monstrous opera.

the tabby yawns as he strolls in the room.
his cream slippers
knead gently the wooden floor.

all evening, no comment on the hissing rain,
the sky’s pounding heartbeat,
the grass pummeled by chunks of hail,
the soaked children who scurry home,
the decrepit tree who muscles through,
the goose wings clipped mid-flight —

all these out in the storm,
but we are tucked in a pocket

and here is a worn mat to lie on
and the old woman has baked barley bread

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© 2014 nessa jasper