Storm

Dark clouds kiss

the sky,

lay themselves down like a vixen waiting

to be ravaged.

Winds aloft are warm

like breath, but here

where I stand, it’s frozen.

Tiny, iced ball-bearings pelt

the earth and leave

striations of white

against my window.

Photo: Gordon Elwell

Who gives a storm

a name as if it’s been invited

to tea?

For this unwelcome

guest I have infantries

of resistance and snipers

in the trees.

Behind the wild sky our cheeky

planet eclipses a full wolf

moon, and in the blackness

cosmic forces howl.

I feel, rather than hear,

their impact. I know

their intent.

My soldiers

are weary; urge me to stop

the war. I lay down

my arms.

N’oreaster winds blow

like a bellows on

the embers of

my heart.

                                                  — Jennifer Comeau