Power

The shadow scurries
To catch up
As my pen chases the muse
In lantern glow.
Bowing in submission
To the storm's icy rage,
The trees' white bones
Droop and groan in the yard,
Like the aged, rheumatoid,
Bent low,
To touch the moon-gilt crest of snow.
Wooden poles and copper
Cannot weave this magic.
The wires' silence helps
The window-framed darkness mirror
The home's warm heart -
Bulwark against life's storms

Michael Coady © 1994