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Poem

I sit here on this wide, stone porch,
the farms stretch for many miles,
even on sunny days you can
sit here and drift for a while…
but this is not a day like that,
the far horizon tells the tale,
a billowing of distant gray,
the storm is coming, without fail.
The first slow pickup of wind comes,
scribes rippled patterns in the wheat,
then birds and bugs stop flittering,
and to their nests beat a retreat.
The looming clouds slowly churn on,
air takes a charge, makes the hair prick,
you taste it with every drawn breath,
it makes the oxygen taste thick.
Next comes the first distant rumble,
that you can feel as much as hear,
you see lighting flicker far off,
knowing that soon it will be near,
then comes that sudden burst of cold,
I think I like that most of all,
brings tiny goosebumps to the flesh,
heralds of the oncoming fall.
The winds are moving faster now,
and the tree branches bend and quake,
you know some cannot ride it out,
and in the maelstrom them will break,
hard rain starts coming, picks up quick,
pelting everything that it spies,
now I’m no fan of getting wet,
so I rapidly slip inside.
The thunder is now overhead,
it’s so damn loud the house vibrates,
there’s something in its savagery
that I strangely appreciate;
when it roars like an angry god,
I am reminded that this earth
cannot be beat down or controlled,
all we’ve made is of little worth,
that for all of our great ego,
and our illusions on control,
mere charged air sends us skittering,
and we’re no longer quite so bold…
Of course there’s also the beauty
of nature painting dark and grim,
a short change from the green and blue,
I like watching the storms roll in.

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