Midway through the storm

we warm ourselves on lightning
rods. We rumble thunder across
our skin, begin in raindrops. We
thin the skies with contemplated
clouds, and sing aloud our own
singed songs. We’re tornado-strong
and tumbled. We’re hurricane-half
-way there, and helterskeltered to
-ward the coming sun. We’ve won.



In November, we poem



This entry was posted in Poetic Asides Chapbook Challenge 2019, scribbling storms, storms and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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