When You Wake After A Storm

by Michael Carrino

Every shadow is a slim ghost in your dimly
lit lamplight. You cannot return
to sleep, instead light a cigarette
found in that secret gold case you keep

under all your heavy as day manuscripts
askew on your bedside table. You rise, cover
your shoulders with the pale
blue robe, drift close to the bay window, pause

while you listen for what by now
must be no more than distant
thunder. Only one reverie will find its way
to you on steel gray mist, consume

all remaining dark hours before
morning, when you will feel close to safe
within all your hectic work
over another long day of ash gray

rain, blistering wind, in this faithless
season of endless rain.

— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 2