The Curiosity of Storms
It is not the best of days.
The sky is historically dark on the horizon.
The waves have gone quiet, barely heard.
There is no wind.
Somewhere in the distance, out of sight
you hear the wail of a lone seal.
There is a chill in the air.
It happens now and again. The past.
The remembrance of nights without end,
Their revival always a surprise.
But you are old now. You bear the scars gladly.
Storms are no more than that,
a passing, a change of scenery
bound to change again,
bringers of change perhaps, or perhaps not.
That is the curiosity of them, the uncertainty
of anything except their eventual leaving.
About this poem.
It is one of those days where I cannot pry anything out of my emotions to write about. But the discipline of writing matters to me, so I wander through my pictures, find one, and write to it. There is truth in it, but an old truth, not in the moment. Not raw. Maybe better for the distance. Maybe not, but the discipline, for me, is healthy. And sometimes, it breaks things loose, like good therapy.
The picture was taken at Cape Cod.