There’s a wild storm raging. It first woke me around 5 am, when a gust hit the side of the house that I sleep next to. Boom!
I like storms, actually. I think I’m generally attracted to chaos, I must be… looking at my desk space and the laundry that’s piled and overflowed its basket. I have work to do. Should have gotten up at five. But it’s hard to do anything except curl up in a blanket next to the window and watch the treetops dance and bend crazily behind the wet windowpane. I’ve slept late, but it still feels like early morning in the half-light.
Wrote this awhile ago. I’ll get it out again, it fits the day.
Evening after evening the atmosphere changes.
The landscape flattens out;
trees begin to toss their boughs
like angry ventriloquists wielding helpless dummies.
“Atmospheric conditions altar.”
You feel this invisible force sucking all the energy in,
drawing all the juice on a molecular level.
The horizon is pulled toward the center
and the center rises.
It’s wind season.
The air has a temperament that verges on crisis.
Every night now it shoves in its stubborn direction:
Pause and roar and pause, and roar again. Persistent.
Not the sea; you’d think the sea would pattern after
this tempest, this maelstrom-
but the sea is patient, as patient as she is ageless,
and the wind is a child throwing tantrums.
The wind is not patient, cannot be.
Why? Shall I assign my reasons?
The wind is an angel knocking its disparate fists upon
the plate glass windows of a discompassionate world.
the wind is a dolphin keening for its mother,
trying to locate the mammal
who has strayed into the fisherman’s net.
It’s orphaned sonar disrupts, disturbs the minutiae
scattered across the sea-floor,
but careless of this and panicked, it’s wails carry forward.
Or maybe the wind is an aged sibyl, throat ragged,
her warnings echoing futilely from
the stone faced sentries of the mountaintops.
Those pale stragglers marching up the hill
intent upon a visit, watch, amused,
as the crone gives away her prophesies for free.
They take no heed of them, but throw their newly saved pennies
into other pools of superstition.
But tonight the many rages of the wind are my fears
crashing against the stony cliffside of a lover.
Materializing in emphatic gestures,
loud voices, the destruction of knickknacks,
accusations, and an eventual disappearing.
My fears are a willful, strident, self-destructive force
the survivor of which is left standing
in an attitude of sorrowful appeal.
Until the tempest dies, withdraws, surrenders…
back to the neutral countenance of the sky.