The Coming Storm

You can still smell the mock orange and lilacs,
sweet in the late afternoon sunlight,
but that is not all.

In the distance, rain falls, a dark storm
blowing slowly towards you,
its damp perfume riding on the wind.

It is far, yet, two mountains over.
you cannot hear the thunder,
but already the lightning rips the black sky.

There was a time when you would have fled,
afraid of the storm’s wild uncertainty.
You would have hidden, afraid less of the violent madness

than your own weakness.

But today you stand on the ridge and watch.
You have suffered many such storms
and always they have passed and you still stand.

You breathe in the cool air.
You feel the air pressure drop.
There is the first rumble, the first reminder

of the approaching fury.
You feel the fear rise once again,
childlike, pure and powerful,

but not so powerful as the person you have become,
who knows the truth storms would not have you know,
that they will pass,

And you will not.

About this poem. 

Remember all the things you used to be afraid of and no longer are?

Tom