Bourgeoning Summer

All of the doors in the house closed at once, 

a dread chorus of gallows trapdoors banging shut

in the wake of chilled wind

that trailed through the house

like ice particles stirred to lively animation.

The sky wallowed in its sullen, amber pall,

little drifts of gray leaves dancing away up the road,

to where the bridge swayed drunkenly with 

each hollow, booming gust, 

recoiling snake-like from the 

bright purple frost of descending lightning.

This is the kind of rain

that washes seasons away whole, 

shrieking into the maw of raw yesterdays,

all bent backwards into oblivion.