The wind has picked up, and the weather is tense
With the anticipation of coming rain.
Dark clouds billow, bulging and flexing their biceps,
Muscles of the storm, rippling with power, taut
With energy that's roiling to be unleashed.
Lacking inspiration in the flat landscape, the artists
Of the plains paint portraits of the people;
Their faces weathered as ancient mounds, furrowed
Like plow-torn fields, their eyes squinting at a sky
That can bring moist salvation to their crop,
Or the hail that can mean its destruction.
With flash and thunder the dark grey biceps
Pummel the window, their wet fury unleashed.
The man moves to pull aside the curtain, his face taut,
When he's moved to speak, his voice is no longer tense.
"We're lucky, Anna," he whispers. "It just looks like rain."
No comments:
Post a Comment