Tuesday morning the rain stops.
Underneath the swinging bridge, the creek
was awake all night and now
runs rampant. Cross to the parlor where
cool hands have built a roaring
welcome. After endless summer days
spent steeped in light, oak-bound heat
is now released and supplants the gray.
On the porch, the old men speak
with tongues of fire, both spirited
and holy. Inside, the wood
relates the original story—
an old celestial game of
telephone. The message started out
in violence—a roiling
furnace burning since the sky began.
Today, sitting by the hearth,
the word has turned to love—and two hearts
that were embers—are now suns.
Photo/Ray Larsen
Román Leão 
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