Red Sky at Morning
The sky is angry, orange, threatening.
The wind howls off the quarry.
The rain falls.
You stand, sure and still,
a survivor of storms large and small,
a relic, not yet a ruin,
able to live in the dark, knowing
you will outlast it
yet again.
About this poem.
More about depression than the storm we had last night. (and it was a doozy.)
Tom
