St. John

St. John, I saw you each morning.
Taken for granted as this Sunday sun rises
Throwing a long shadow away from Bird St. on a day like any other, otherwise.
Barely aware of birds nervously fluttering across leafy branches in warning.

St. John, I still see you, but you're fading away.
As I rushed in from Dillons, 
I took one last look toward the swirling gray.
and saw you enveloped by an angry exhale at the end of this day...
no longer like any other


St. John, we find you inside us 
and we won't let you go.
The shadows of so many lives cast upon your living walls.
We were born here, 
we came in sick, 
and some of us left well,
while others left with you 
as you served your last full measure of devotion.

Your restoration is our mission and the wheels are in motion.

Myth Of The Mound

I learned the myth of the mound was blowing away
from the TV's urgent plea.
Humidity transformed into a sickly, green hue.
I need to see what is coming, but the cedars block the view.
The rapidly increasing darkness and howl means the monster broke free.
Sirens rise to take a stand, join the fray.

Mom's at the store, dad's day at the Capitol just began.
Alone. . . across the street to join the neighbors downstairs.
Inflow yanks at my feet, begging me to slip, and my eyes have to know.
Looking backward, I keep moving forward...it follows...I might be too slow! 
Bathed in different light -- the dying sun, exploding blue arcs, headlights in the air.
The door latches, then leaves, along with everything else of where I just ran.