©2015 by Jack A. Urquhart
Purple thunder heralds the storm.
At dusk, the rains begin.
Outside my window a necklace of liquid pearls—
strung from telephone line—
captures the last iridescence of day.
I hear a mourning dove fluster and take flight;
her cry is heathery, a fluttering gray.
At my desk, I search for words.
Is there a better likeness of longing?
In the next room, I hear you speak.
Once, then again softly
you call my name
and I rise
To seek shelter