The Storm
A scurrying wind records
its course in a feverish play
of patterns rushed across
a grassy hill. In the distance,
through folds of grey,
flashing threads
of lightning
weave a ghostly web
strung briefly between the mind
and eye. Rising plumes
of cloud consolidate
and fall as rain.
The storm builds weight
to free itself from
what holds it here,
its furious pull
heaving on the end
of a line as if to force
my fingers to let it go
and plummet downward
like a severed kite
emptied of its rage -
becoming little more
than a flicker
curling up under the edges
of an evening,
as you go on sleeping
far away from it all.
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