You can hear
rain’s insignificance
when it starts.
June’s thick air falls open
when the humid air blows
through the screendoor
on our porch.
A flash,
then a long, low growl.
The house rattles at
the first crack.
At the third,
the lights go to sleep.
With the quiet, a bright purple sky
a strange yellow glow
(on everything!)
and candles from the
kitchen drawer
come out.
From the southern sky,
an orange, red, ivory glow.
A siren starts in the distance.
– John LeMasney
Stories of Failure & Kindness 