It has been a season of darkness,
a lost year
where what is left is less
that what was, and in unexpected ways,
like a summer storm from the east
that refused to blow over
and changed the landscape with each gust,
leaving you with a landscape of broken trees
and a lack of words
to explain what is missing and what remains.
And so you sit.
You let the storm wash over you
one more time,
without moving or trying to understand.
Sometimes power just is. Good. Evil. Neither. Both.
And we are left to sing its sonnet.
About this poem.
Actually, I have no idea what this poem is about. I started to write one poem, and I got this. Happens sometimes.
The picture was taken tonight. A storm is blowing in, I think.