The Dismantling of Storms

Late in the afternoon, clouds roll in.
Layers of them, dark wisps down low,
blown fast in the dusk.
White piles of clouds, not yet storms,
slowly building higher with each hour,
barely moving, except within.

That is where the storms grow,
within.
Heat and moisture, raw ingredients,
sustained, lovely things from afar,
but beyond the cotton candy exterior
there is madness, frantic anxiety,
water, like thoughts, overheating,
growing heavy. Inevitable.

You rest on the shore.
The air is heavy with rising water.
You lie calm on the shore, the picture of peace,
waiting
for the heavy air to drain you, breathing.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
Slow. Regular. Thoughtfully,
the storm leaves you and rises to the sky.

About this poem

One of the things that constantly fascinates me is when there are layers of clouds, different kinds of clouds, all moving at different speeds, at times in different directions, all in one sky, blown by layers of winds.

So like us human types.

The picture was taken at Lake George, NY.

Tom