Paul imagined his mother’s grave.
Rain pelted it.
A branch fell torn from a tree.
The headstone toppled.
He wondered why his imagination
failed to produce snow
so deep as to hide
the graveyard.
He decided it was because
his feelings toward his mother
were not as cold as snow
or sleet or hailstones,
but more like a wind that injures trees
and innocent bystanders.
Old unexpressed angers
vented into the ether.
Paul planned a drive back to Denver
on some spring day
when the first thaw drips icicles
from tree branches and gutters.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
postscript
Today’s entry was posted a couple hours later than usual due to the internet being down in our area for several hours.
Umflop 