|
Waiting on the storm,
its cool rage to blow me absolution
in the night.
And I can sense it coming,
from the quiet death of air
trapped by moments.
This is the hiatus
to wait in and wade through,
and then to know all when
the storm closes me like a door.
I can feel the earth rise in breaths
expelling the hurt of a hot day,
and casting them in lumps towards a storm
that comes not far away.
And yet, I
expect a slight fright when it arrives,
a quiver and tremble,
and then,
and then a time so foreign
from the assault of my day
the one that aged me,
and wore me,
and lasted me just enough
to give me the coming storm
in this patient and rewarding night.
#
|