Night Of The Day Poem by Bianca Fiechter

The seventh of May
The sky is rippled
Potato chip clouds.
Proud soldiers marching
Forward.
The wind surges, stretches
Careening from tree top to
Tree top.
Singing, breathing, singing
…………… Breathing.
Moving my hair
Sneaking under my clothes as
An over eager lover
Raising bumps on my skin
As one of those might,
Just might …..
If I had one.
Gusts barrel through
Flattening the flames of
My carefully tended fire.
It feeds the flames,
They grow
Lean
Arc
CRASH down on themselves.
In the whirling current of air
The flames panic,
Ducking for cover
Bumping into
And off of one another
Like frenzied housewives
Searching for the blue light special.