Nor did I chase
the storms, even as
they came for me, that way
Did not run
for shelter stops
Nothing
we wed in between
such pouring days
as if a window
Opened
to a raw and fresh world
Where death and birth
dwell in unison
A reddened dawn
bled deep
into horizon lines, gashes,
words of warning defined
Old
wives tales,
words of prophecy
fairies and fantasies,
Or metaphor
like We could be
Happy, sirens.
Thoughts as thick as
Mammatus
dissipate for clearer
skies shall
Pass
Blinding truths
anyway...
For now
I stay shuddered
while wet and wiser
atmospherically.
Painting by Hart, James McDougal, 1828-1901 (artist); 'The Storm is Coming' L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
