A Letter to Kore

There's a deliciously ferocious,
exceptionally wicked,
absolutely smashing thunderstorm
cackling below and flashing across
the wingspan of sparrows in the wee hours.
Gargantuan limbs of jurassic lightening
are raking across the sky
as the asphalt glows
in prose and vigilance.
I'm listening to vinyl under the deluge,
drinking from a banged up coffee mug
that has consoled me on many black Mondays.
My trepidatious fingers hug rose hip tea
and tap the feverish ceramic skin,
as morning birds twinkle from rooftops.
We relish in the early morning
and become undone by her discourse,
her dusk,
and her delirium.
The ponderous piper lures me
and I accede to the bliss
as cream slickly swirls
the abyss of a red eye.
I throw my head back into the sound,
the enticing sounds of predawn ricocheting
from the belly of the fury.
I throw my head back and I am sailing,
I’m traveling back to watching silent snowfall
coat the majestic evergreen sleeves
as we drive to the Oregon coast.