The clouds were squared up in
misted puffs, moving in silent streams,
blocking all evidence of an earlier
blue sky where sunlight passed through
leaded glass.
Hands cut from stone, prepare for the
storm. Clothes from line are grasped like
children walking too close to fire. The winds
begin to speak; its inertia not always with
good intentions. Pillars of scattered wild
weeds hold their ground like sign posts.
The speed of the storm is in a standstill.
Relentless pounding, hammers from heaven.
The earth becomes its anvil for revenge.
Roger Singer 