Beneath Bruised Skies
Beneath Bruised Skies
The wind, a ghost with an unseen hand,
Whips grit and dust across the Oklahoma land.
It carries the smell of ozone, sharp and cold,
A story whispered, ancient, bold.
You feel its tug, a constant plea,
A playful push, then suddenly,
A heavy cloak of pressure drops,
As every buzzing insect stops.
The sky turns bruised, a sickly green,
A painted canvas, rarely seen.
The air grows thick, a metal taste
Of fear, a moment held in haste.
Then distant rumble, low and deep,
Like giants stirring from their sleep.
The sound of sirens, a mournful wail,
As funnel clouds begin to sail.
A twisting finger, dark and grand,
Tearing through the heart of the land.
Houses splinter, timber flies,
Beneath the terror in the skies.
Yet, in the wake, a silence falls,
Broken by the lone bird's calls.
A strange calm follows, soft and low,
As if the earth begins to glow.
And here's the truth, etched in the scars:
Oklahoma, beneath these stars,
Learns resilience from the gale,
A strength that tells a timeless tale.
For every structure ripped and torn,
A deeper bond is bravely born.
The wind may rage, the sky may weep,
But hope and spirit, here, run deep.
It's not just terror, wild and free,
But a testament to what we can be.
Copyright ©
Jami Patt
|