Eventually

gutters stop speaking

to the rain and the empty

hands of wind finish their

assault on wood and stone

walls. Black becomes blue.

Blue becomes orange as

windows glow like a flame

melting the horizon again.

And we get there, maybe

carried some, maybe

carrying some, because it

isn’t a competition to see

who never falls down.

It’s a relay. It’s a long way

to another morning past

the storm, getting there

together, eventually.