Poetry: Collada

Collada

El niño with his little hands is playing in the kitchen
with a miniature bindle stick made from ball lightning fragments
and shards of eddy. Balancing it against the eye wall,
el niño hitches the neap tide and claps his little hands together.

Tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:

Above a nocturnal thunderstorm, by the jet stream,
the thick albedo quakes the atmosphere.
El niño, tired from riding the mountain waves,
curls up inside an ice jam. His muggy little hands

are awake and stay curious:

Do battle with the isopleth! The North
Pacific high approaches. Azores high and Bermuda
high, el niño stands at the nadir and contemplates
the lotus. Beneath the omega block he cultivates a lotus.

El niño meditates:

The lotus has five white little fingers. It grows
in the aphelion. It sips hoarfrost from the tip of
each white little finger. It blossoms at red tide
and dies at mare’s tail. Stands in a field of moist adiabat;

tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:

~ By Benjamin Korman ~