On Storms in Life and Sky

Revenant, by Christian Wiman

She loved the fevered air, the green delirium

in the leaves as a late wind whipped and quickened —

a storm cloud glut with color like a plum.

Nothing could keep her from the fields then,

from waiting braced alone in the breaking heat

while lightning flared and disappeared around her,

thunder rattling the windows. I remember

the stories I heard my relatives repeat

of how spirits spoke through her clearest words,

her sudden eloquent confusion, trapped eyes,

the storms she loved because they were not hers:

her white face under the unburdening skies

upturned to feel the burn that never came:

that furious insight and the end of pain.



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