Walking in the Storm
The dark sky grows darker.
The storm is near.
Thunder fills your ears.
Wind tosses driftwood like sawgrass.
The first raindrops fall on your bald head.
Wiser souls than you have abandoned this place
and found their boltholes.
And still, you walk the beach
for your peace is not found huddled under shelters,
afraid or hiding.
It is found in the threatening skies,
even there, in their darkness,
sure, despite all evidence
that it is only through the storm
that the sun rises,
and strength is found less in the fleeing
than the battle.