Marginal Life
Aug 29 2008


I watched the storm come in
over the lake.
These clouds are unmistakeable —
heavy, threatening,
pushing ahead of them this fitful wind
gusting every-which-way.
A sharp line divides the sky
— half blue,
half gloomy overcast —
bathing the shore in liquid light;
so the green hills glow,
and the water is black, mysterious.
Then thunder,
its rumbling almost continuous.

I feel exhilarated here
at the front, on the margin;
where things rub-up against each other,
where friction
heats things up.
Like opposing charges.
Or rock-striking-rock
setting-off sparks.
Or hot humid weather
boiling into cool air,
that will not be moved.
Because it’s not the center, but at the edge
where energy is spent,
creativity released,
and the unexpected
what you come to expect.

In the end, the storm just grazed us,
with flashes of light
a fierce burst of rain.
Then the sun re-emerged,
and the world felt cleansed
re-made.