A gentle quiet, all to be heard
while held in the heart of the storm.
Run, run as fast I can,
but shelter is impermanent.
The end-half of the storm
whips about this house, and soon
all good things are torn down.
Worn away to flying flotsam.
The wind is kind to residents;
this house is torn away,
but here I am, sitting pretty.
Dreaming of plums and balloons.
And then it’s gone. The storm,
the wind, and biting rains.
There it is, in the distance,
trapped in quieter places.
Years hence; I’m no stormchaser.
Born to sit and stare, gently judging.
But in the palm of my hand, concealed,
is the remnant of a biting wind.
The storm is long gone by now,
flown away and dissipated.
But some part of the wind
has buried itself in my soul.