Postcard in Longhand

It is not dying that is
important beyond sight
and sound;
we watch a filament
that uncannily springs
from the ground
and we know it all;
the moment is finished,
fingers are flush,
humid, and satisfying
on this cool autumn night:

But still there is
a still sound
that rushes from
this autumn air.
Nothing is good alone;
I know, for when, even
in New Orleans, one
feels a flush of cold dawn
he knows when lightning is coming on.

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.