Storm

There is chaos in the air.

Petulant skies darken, steel gray clouds,
antagonistic, layers in fading light, overlapping,
integrating.  A palette of exquisite shades and textures.

An indifferent wind, sensing the cross currents of
spatial change, recreates herself as turbulent
tantrums.  With unrepentant resolve, she severs
the bonds of all restraint.

A fragile hummingbird, barely an ounce of feathers and bone,
struggles to hold her own in winds swirling off the vine
covered stone wall.  Bewildered and buffeted, she rides
the fickle currents with cautious glee.

The slap of fat raindrops creates an irregular rhythm as the
sky drips the first hints of a deluge too heavy to hold.
Dozens of toy tin drums tap out an unrecognizable 
tune as drops ricochet off metal ramada roof slats,
staccato splashes.  Other droplets fall on crimson
rose petals, roll gently through the soft curves,
coaxing them open like a lover’s teasing lips.

With scant warning, celestial timpani kettles rumble,
birthing a rolling thunder that grows louder and louder
until fire streaked cymbals split the sky into jagged,
spiky chunks of darkening cloud, determined to embrace
a menacing purple horizon.

The earth languishes in anticipation as the storm
calculates its trajectory and torment, draws in the
full volume of explosive air, then with renewed
ferocity propels the pent-up ferment across the land.

No more silken drops of rain.  Now skin stinging
lashes of water whip the bending trees.  Malevolent
bursts of wind, prompted by sinister laughter from
a savage sky, carry small, sharp-edged stones into
windows and walls, hissing, growling, daring the
convulsing palm tree to stand erect and face the 
fury head on.

For hours the Wagnerian cacophony rises and falls.
Pitiless.  Without mercy.  Mad pleasure, driven and
destructive, contained in cosmic breath.

Then, as if spent from the relentless bombardment,
the storm limps toward the mountain and its own
destruction, leaving behind ragged remnants of its
wrath.  A once elegant oak tree, moments ago regal
in its southern plantation heritage, dangles helplessly
over upended lawn chairs.  Its roots are washed clean
of earth‘s evidence.

A bent and broken lawn umbrella, green canvas dislodged
from twisted support arms, sprawls on the grass; the
mortally wounded abandoned among destruction’s 
debris.  Faint mist lingers but only long enough to gloat.

Soon a face, tentative and watchful, peers from the 
back door of the red brick cottage to calculate the
costs, remember what normalcy used to look like, and
mourn the passing of potted gardenias and scattered
fig vines.

Just over the bare stalks of a young citrus tree, a little
patch of blue sky squints through an expanding gash
in the blanket grayness.  It is a welcome sight.

It holds promise.