Poem by Matthew Miller (inspired by Joel 2:12-14)
Last night, thunderstorms combed branches, splashing the mulberries’ face.
Streams of mercy on their dry roots, call for songs of low hush praise.
In last night’s bolts, wayward flashes, my son came downstairs half-awake.
He climbed in bed, in between us, snuggled in our half-smushed praise.
Solitary tick of seconds, opening up to sun’s first rays,
from the pine bush comes new birdsong, orchard rings with wood thrush praise.
In the half light, kettle steaming, I thumb and shuffle a thin page.
Spiraled pour to dampen the grounds, each drip dark with sweet crushed praise.
Midnight moons prick with mosquitoes. We are scorched on sunny days.
Morning jets, silent above us, cross the sky with white-brushed praise.
Waking is the softest hour, with its cool caress of grace.
Wrapped in blankets, gently clicking, all my words are full-flushed praise.
Half sun, half shadow, you have hollowed a compassionate place.
Since it’s quiet, I will whisper, add my voice to the rush of praise.
About Matthew Miller
Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry. He lives beside a dilapidated apple orchard in Indiana and tries to shape the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been published in Flying Island, Remington Review and is forthcoming in Whale Road Review. For more, visit his website.