Waiting for the Storm

It was always an escape for me -
menacing, dark, power.
The rolling cloud at the fore.

The 70's, when Lennon was shot,
the bus stop, Iran, hostages,
but evening storms, I wanted more.

There would be frogs
gathering in the hundreds.
I would witness the swarm.

Adulthood, hurricanes, damage -
you'd find me wandering
in the eye of the storms.

A sentence received for life.
To ever feel the winds,
bear the losses, the turmoil.

And yet still, a fascination 
with the ominous, billowing,
swirling, enigmatic forms.