by Catherine Weber, from the chapbook Refuge:

I Am the Storm

The air is still.
No roo-roo-room of the bullfrog,
No drone or bellow. No caw.

I wait on the steps as the weather turns.

Now, I am the storm.
I am the raindrops pelting the ground.
I am the thunder and the rage
of all that has come before.

So we sit in the webbed lawn chairs
sheltering from the onslaught, waiting it out.

Working through a litter of thoughts,
treading to the other side of the storm.

Ghosts arrive, reminding us how we got here.
The wash of loss, a shroud of bitter sadness,
a rush of kindness, and blurry hope.

Finally, the sun arrives
and we walk the path home, still
sorting out what comes next.

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