Latest Poem
- Brother Storm
First I felt his fingertips—airy, electric.
I lingered amid the fingers of the storm
on the Upper Chidwick.
Brown leaves and maple keys woven into warm
strands of wind-tussled filigree
now gathering like an ogre, now winding about me.I stepped out of my sandals to run the broad back
of the lawn—wet and hunched—
pushing vainly against
the storm’s fists. Its arms’ muscle. Its haunches
somewhere in the valley driving its formidable heft
toward me. I was impressed.Yet once he lifted his ribs above the treeline
ballooning like a puffer fish,
bleeding thunder, barking out lighting
like a grieving walrus, I bit my lip,
curled my toes against the land
and gaped as he swung his leg over the treeline and began to stand.That’s
when I knew that enough’s enough.
I bent down to strap
my sandals up,
and meekly, I bid my brother good night
knowing that not all my Father’s creatures play nice.
Joseph Michael Fino, CFR is a priest of the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal. His work has been published with Arthouse2B.
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