Without a sound she turned to face the window.
'Who do I call, the funeral home? ', she asked.
'The family or the church? ', she almost begged,
...
hear the rain typing
words on the roof of the porch
a poem in the storm
...
Bending the light
twisting
the sound.
...
there sleeping easy
dreaming, it twitches jumping
playing cat and mouse
...
The day I was born.
I know for a fact
it was in July
and early
...
old barn leaning, beaten,
battered
gray
by the weather
...
winter wind screaming
my ears freezing burning cold
with the profanity
...