Mudlark No. 50 (2013)


Time is a thunderstorm that flowers 
over our heads, its vines of lightning reaching 
for someone’s mother, someone’s father, 
someone’s husband, wife, son, daughter, 
reaching some day for you and, 
with a thunderclap and a flash of blue, 
pulling you up by the roots until 
there’s nothing left to hold you to this earth. 

Love is the aftermath of the storm, 
its flayed branches and shredded leaves 
woven together by the wind into one wreath.
We honor the storm with our prayers, 
tossing solemn words into the wind 
like milkweed seeds, tiny silk gifts 
we give to the sky before we die.

Kip Knott | The Night Word
Contents | Mudlark No. 50 (2013)