Striated

It’s a day of subtle perfection...
The water’s slow, steady roll from the leaves of the oak
Augments the unchanging static sky in its glare;
Forks of lightning are stabbing questions, and
The answers roll in on the thunder amid new queries.
I could spend all day shivering in the semi-light
And dreaming of a place where the silence is the storm --
Where children dread the sky turned blue,
And staring into the calm makes my eyes buzz.

I blame only the quiet for bringing the noise,
And I exalt the wind only because it is the sigh of the tempest.