Provence

When thunder hollows lungs
the moment's past -
a fastened chain;
when lightning strikes the
cedar tree to puss
she's rust in my gut:
dead among the sheaves
in the wet meadow turf,
tears raining down the glass
of my reflection.

Lightning lights the leaves, Autumn fire
burns to dust;
a murdered breeze
dead upon the stump -
wings flailed, slumped
on ash.