Poetry Exposed
A storm ushers out August’s heat,
and the leaves of the butternut
whirligig upward
in a funnel of wind
and then down
in the vortex
of this late summer
storm
stampeding across the yard
like frightened cattle.
Poetry, hidden
in the sturdy limbs,
exposes itself now.
It has no choice
when the wind kicks up
like this, no longer hidden
on the shade-side of the leaf.
The side of the leaf
that has never seen light
ends up backside up
on the ground, its story
in full view for all to read—
the inchworm
caught weaving its web,
the black blight-curled ends,
its hurt, face-up now in the light
after the storm’s urging.
I can see, too, the thick veins—
beams of support—like the ribs
of a beat-up umbrella,
stretched out to catch
the rain, wind, and sun alike,
stretched out to carry the light
to the dark.
• • •
David Hinkhouse is a retired American History, English, British Literature, college-level English Composition and Literature, Dramatic Arts, and World History teacher. He also, up to the age of 37, built approximately 1500 homes, and held jobs such as farmworker, janitor, and paper boy. He is a friend to many and an enemy to few… very few.