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
4 Comments:
Rozanne February 10, 2019
Really beautiful, Jen! I can feel the storm through your words. Love the photo, too.
Jen Comeau February 10, 2019
Thank you, Rozanne. Next time I’ll use one of your beautiful photos.
Cheryl March 09, 2019
I will look at dark clouds now and think of your words said so beautiful and how we name our storms as bringing them to tea beautiful
Jen Comeau March 09, 2019
Thank you, Cheryl. And isn’t it grand to be alive, despite the struggles and storms?