Spared a winter but not a spring.

Hail thrashes, splitting the wind

Into crystals lit by flashes,

Revealing shadows touching down

Like long fingers pointing curses.


My husband, the one-eyed lamp,

In our basement cave,

Checking the radar on his I-phone.

The cats subdued by the growling wind,

Finding refuge under a table by their litter.


And I, swathed in a blanket,

Sitting on the porta-potty seat,

Left over from a surgery,

To remain a throne in a storm.

My messages failed to send.


Roars diminishing to low growls,

Lightning flails like extinguishing flames,

Thunder stomps like a child wanting attention.

It passes over without forgiving.

New-born daffodils embracing the deluge now strain for morning.

Even storms are gifts.


Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Brusheezy (free download)







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