Ruth Bavetta

Under the Thunder

Clouds loom

over Mill Peak,

rolling, colliding.

My father’s bones, ashes

under a lowering sky, alone

on the mountain. Some things

cannot be touched,

cannot be owned, must 

be endured. 

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, sentimentalism, and sauerkraut.