You can smell it.
It hangs heavy in the air,
a menacing dampness, salty,
cold and sure.
You do not know how long it will be
or the wind that may carry it.
You only know it is near.
So stand a little longer.
Listen to the waves and the gulls.
Remember the sun of yesterday and perhaps, tomorrow.
But do not wait too long,
for standing in the storm serves no purpose,
no thrill, no promises,
except to find yourself cold to the bone.
For a moment, you are tempted
to rail, Lear-like, at the storm,
to protest its dark, cutting cold,
its thievery of color and light,
its ugly truth.
But you do not.
You have railed like a madman before,
and no one listened,
especially the storm,
which never does.
No, no ranting tonight.
You will find a warm room with a window
and watch the rain and the wind,
and you will get your revenge on the morrow,
when the storm has passed,
and you have not.
About this poem
Could be about the storm just outside my window in Cape Cod. Or most any other storm in life. Your choice.