Hailstorm

I run to these slow-fell forests,

stalling along the pink maples,

lit like sunsets whirling manitoba

paused so delicately, along

thin grasses grooved to soil,

glancing the direction of plum

autumn; my sight caresses

wrinkled leaves above

thickest poplar trees, planted

down the riverbank, let in the

light of dew. refracting shine

around this coral-red corner

stepping gently through a

gnarled wet garden, soaked

like tempest wamth in summer

this dusk glitters every prism-hue

of rouge to violet; caught within

the dripping eye of a blackish green

hailstorm, streaming a rainbow

in full walls of gale-force wind

breathing into the thin-spun air,

I welcome cyan-royal purple

over me, as the thunder slams

a heavy shake in this woodland