by Jerry McGinley
The low moan of nearing thunder
Swells and blusters, groans closer,
Stern clouds loom and roil in the west,
Angry Thor growls dour warnings,
The moon is swallowed, winds snarl,
Storm sirens blare, screen doors slam.
Lightning lashes the black sky,
Windows rattle, raw winds slash,
Frail branches snap and crash to wet earth,
Hail and rain slap-patter against
The metal shed, slippery black streets
Reflect snake-like white streaks skipping
Helter-skelter across the sky.
And from my own dark storms I cower,
Head pulses with each tremulous roar,
Mind flashes between half-dreams
And the real world, body quivers,
Pants in shallow gasps as though
Some weight retarded the movement
Of my chest. I search the sky
For hope of let-up, but ill-omened
Clouds show no sign of surrender.
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