By L. Ward Abel
Under winter lightning kneel the cattle
while behind windows
I bathe in a flashing room.
Dreams of sea-level fill thunderheads:
they drain all darkness down to the Gulf.
Their song rattles windows
Someday I’ll die too
on a course to later fall as rain
when the cedars bend
and the air changes just
enough—then the number ‘one’
a billion stars.
About the Author: L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in Rattle, The Reader, The Istanbul Review, The Worcester Review, The Honest Ulsterman, hundreds of others, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019), Floodlit (Beakful, 2019), and The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021). Abel resides in rural Georgia.