Storm
The
storm twists, dark dust motes spiral in the midst of angels.
See yourself
in the eye caught in the loud. This rising blast of energy
swoops and
sails, spinning, casting out light, the
mind rent in two.
Animals
soar up in the gust, its
mammoth tail dug into the ground,
head butting
the clouds gathering
might. We pray for starlight
to stifle
this thing and make it stop, so it stands still,
as if
time could pause, the soft sands
in the glass frozen for eternity.
The storm
repels and we gaze ever higher into its towering might,
houses and
yards vanishing, sucked into
this behemoth, and we are small,
so small as to be nothing really under the struggling sun.
In the
distance the south sea roars, echoing
the brute above us,
but we
are transfixed. They say to run
to the coast, the vast blue waiting,
this sanctity,
this haven, but we are glued to our
post, gazing to Heaven,
but Heaven
can’t see us. They say we are only women and stand here invisible.
The
storm swirls, its rising swarm takes
it all, insects and all that
crawls,
and we
watch, the echo of the thing in
our ears, the finality of it all.
Its
anger spirals, nears a brute crescendo, spinning, looping, crossing
field
and town, razing everything in
its path except for our small selves.
The sea
calls us, but we believe we are mightier, and we keep to our roots,
steady as
the trees that bow and dance
but
do not break in the wind.
And then
stillness… a loud silence without
echo, a full stop fully read.
Peace
comes in quietude, the storm vanquished,
and we are empty
as we
are, as we were, as we will be still while the earth’s hum reigns.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 23, 2022
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