Bill Brown
February 2003

From The Night Porch


The silhouette of Snow Ridge,
trees tossing in windshears
from a coming storm,
reminds me of a flight

from L.A. home to
Tennessee: the jerking plane,
the bolts of lightning
by the wing. A woman

asked to close my window
as if fear of crashing
would be lessened by
what she could not see.

Her voice was like my
sister's, soft and direct,
who once told me when
I was small and scared:

"Darkness is your friend,
a twin to match the cave
you have inside."
Listen:

memory is easily broken
by the sound of trees,
the sound of trees
erased by memory.

The dark ridge above
the creek is rich
with both.
A flash of lightning,

I count
one Mississippi
two Mississippi, three--
then thunder

storms are like the future,
three miles away,
closing fast.
The cave I have inside

is opened by the wind,
like the dark ridge
surprised by lightning
and the rush of leaves.

Many times I stand
on this porch
to watch storms fill up
with trees

and hear my sister's voice
in the night
speak of darkness
as a friend.

This memory
without fear
webs me to the night
beauty of this land.

The Art of Dying, The Sow’s Ear Press.