The sky, blue parchment, one
cloud poemed across it.  Uncle
is in the garden, weeding; Auntie
muttering behind him about too

much rain.  She picks up a rock,
turns it over, worrying it like she
does everything else, puts it in
her pocket.  Uncle plods on, his

hands flashing between the rows
of verdant growth, knowing what
is good and what isn't; it's been
handed down from father to son:

he was a good student.  Uncle
straightens his back; hard working
the land.  Will be good when little
Johnny gets older; he could use

the help.  Right now he's still too
young.  Uncle turns to say
something to Auntie when the
world flashbulbs white:  a bolt

from the blue.  Somehow, it
missed them but the old oak tree
wasn't so lucky.  He remembers
it like it was yesterday:  it gave

Auntie something new to worry
about and gray hair.  She says
it was the rock that saved them.
She doesn't go out to the garden,

though:  refuses to take chances.
When Uncle and Johnny go out
back, she's at the door, rolling the
rock in her fingers, saying a prayer.

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (9/19)