Earth, Water, Fire, Air

   by Paula Ashley

I did not sleep last night.
The flickering light of the television screen –
the analog kind with converter box
that sometimes breaks up images into green –
captured me:

a man on his knees before the matchsticks
of his mother’s house, shakes his fists at the sky
and sobs Sorry. So sorry. Mother
I could not get here in time.

It was not the god of air but the god of earth
that jammed its plates into the cupboard
of the year, lengthened its day
and tilted itself off-center.

Angered, the god of water flushed the bays
then rushed back with fury at the disturbance
to its depths. The god of fire broke loose
a nuclear plume that the god of air
carried over the land.

This morning I pour another cup of coffee
watch sparrows congregate on the backyard fence.
I hear their chirping through an open window
hear the clock radio playing in the bedroom
listen to the sighs of books still standing 
on their shelves.

I pour the dregs down the drain
with the day’s annoyances: the sprinkler system
that will not work, the insurance adjuster who claims
my roof does not warrant full replacement
although it will leak if not replaced after last October’s 
storm, and the woman who stole the petty cash from
my husband’s shop. The disposal makes quick work of such. 

Again tonight I will turn on the television
let the green patterns resolve into images 
and pray with the people of Japan.