Before the Wind

Close the barn. A storm is coming.
The sky grows dark
and the birds have fallen silent.
The smell of rain is heavy in the air

and it is still,
a temporary lie
before nature’s sanity runs amok,
a berserker unaware

of it’s power,
but only to destroy.

What good is love
when it has been torn asunder,
shredded bit by bit
and left like flower petals on the barn floor,

a childhood game
weak and waiting for the angry winds
to make it disappear
in a colorful dance of oblivion?

So bar the doors. Draw close the shutters.
Gather the petals and the seeds from the floor.
Wait out the fury. It will pass

And it will be planting time
again.

About this poem

I don’t write many poems at 3AM. But I woke and could not get back to sleep.

Tom