Ruth Bavetta
And the wind
slalomed down the pass, cold as the hate
that lingers long after a quarrel's night.
And its fingers picked at the chapparal, cracked
the back of the old oak, writhed
down the chimney, spewed
the ashes of the hearth across the room.
And the sand ticked against the glass
and the wires sang of things unseen
and unimagined. And they slept
and no one spoke.
Bio
Ruth Bavetta's poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, North American Review, Slant, Nerve Cowboy, Atlanta Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, prejudice, and sauerkraut.