Every Broken Thing

 Porch Weather
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

  
                                            Porch Weather 


            Rain drizzles, dwindles down and stops
            as he stretches
 arthritic arms up in staccato
            thrusts – exposes palms and 
throws prayer skywards
            in psychotic chants 
only heaven can bear. Finally,
            tires then slowly sits back, 
leans on willowed
            limbs fashioned to rock and creak
            into wooden troughs worn smooth from this one

            redundant act. This sculptured precipice where
            his mother’s water burst forth – like tears from a savior –
            a flood so pained only god could endure. Now, he
            leans 
as dusk spills free from canyon edge,
            contemplates 
reflections of an opaque sky as it glistens
            from watery 
remnants in the hard packed clay.
            Waiting alone for it 
to slowly seep into ground or air,
            preparing for yet 
another prayer, cloud or mumbled chant.