H. Edgar Hix

H .  E d g a r  H i x

Apocalypse

I believe like the deaf believe in thunder.

I see the lightning in the distance:

The lightning too bright to be silent;

the distance too tall to be soft-footed.

I believe in the storm like one indoors

who sees the radar reports on the weather updates:

masses of clouds disguised as colors

discussed by the friendly voice predicting hail.

It is Spring and the snow is gone.  The ice is gone.

Grass and leaves green enough for the blind to see

rise and spread flowers of belief like palm leaves

laid down triumphant before the Four Horsemen.