Old Mountain Wind Blows the Rain Down the Gorge

Cat on lap, he's typing letters to friends
on the other shore of this ocean,
on the east side of this Rim of Fire;
writing while the wind flings
sheets of rain, veils of fog WHOOSH
down Hutien gorge.

Moments ago he stood at the stove
looking out at the flooding farm terraces,
rain rucking the surface of paddies,
wind chasing rain, and again he
thought of her, how she'd like looking out too,
while the wok she worked so well
leaped with flame and vegetables.

He'd be at the table sure,
drinking tea and talking to her
easier than whiskey ever talks.

And she'd be cooking, wondering
when he'd commence to read
from Dickens, Tolstoy, or some
good mystery aloud to her.

Of course, there's other women,
all Asia out his door, and
he could be in a Turkish jail,
or dead by mortar shell in Lebanon.

But they were married.

Mike O'Connor | Cicada
Contents | Mudlark No. 7