Almost Here
Whirling wings,
roar of rushing wings
fills all space
between neurons,
all time
between pulse and pulse.
Someone is arriving
on wet storm winds,
on brutal wings.
I must put out of me
whatever I would mourn
when it’s broken.
It will be broken.
Tree-snapping winds whipped up
by flowers as they gently turn
toward the sun.
In the lake
striped bass, perch, bluegill
hide in the depths.
The surface is agitated,
the monster of the water
awakes.
Someone is arriving.
When all goes calm,
peace is destroyed.
The fist is raised.
Nowhere is safe.
Someone is arriving.
It must be me.
— Bryant Jacobi
4/4/25
(NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 4)