The Birthplace of Tornadoes
Storms are brazen, often rude,
Lighting the sky with invectives
Of white-blue light terrible.
The rains carp the submissive
Ground wearing it so slowly
Down into curves, mud.
The thunder stomps through
Heaven’s empty rooms above.
It knows the children tremble
Beneath, conjuring punishments
Through tall silken crowns
Where venomous rodents erupt.
In boredom, the storm sulks
Away.
In time,
The rodents and children trade places.
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