Brontomancy
Every night as I slide
into the covers, I say,
Alexa, play thunderstorm,
and the magical cylinder
beside me pauses before
breathing out a rumble
that grows slowly, cold
wind and rain-splatter audio
low, growling and opening
the night bedroom toward
the percussion of storms,
as though I had found
myself beside a nearby
and darkened and wide-
open window, and I imagine
myself in another room
made of stone and weathered
wood where the wind
blowing near disturbs
the dancing heart of the
woodstove, and I accept
the soft assumption that
this could be my home
in some future, spectral
post-life. The slow rolling
thunder is the echo of
chaos beyond the horizon
where I can no longer go.
While, inside, I only know
my own long shadows,
a clock’s slowing tempo,
the gold fireplace glow,
my comforter, my pillow,
and only the ghosts I hold.
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