Thunder in heavy August late afternoon
puts me in mind of peacocks strutting
before a storm, blue green tails making a dry
rustling sound, anxious at fear’s near edge,
the multiple feather eyes moving perhaps
an inch back and forth and seeing nothing.
My mind can wander because it is of my
body, organ inseparable – these peacocks
were on another continent and long ago
and yet I house this within myself, how
beautiful the peacocks were, how strange
the dry sound before storm, those eyes.
Am I more fully myself being older
or am I not – no way to answer and
perhaps even foolish to ask as the rain
that was heralded comes pouring down
I am reasonably sure the peacocks took
no notice of me as I was taking them in.
After rain comes the scent of mint in
the green soaked garden, luxurious,
and the black eyed susans are blazing,
refreshed, quite the opposite of subdued ,
the peacocks strut in my mind and make
that dry rustling sound as their tails shiver