The Storm
by Vern A. Decato
Though the wind blew,
And the trees whose time had come
Fell;
Though the wind blew,
And virgin blossoms
With tropical perfume
Submitted to nature's fury,
Releasing their fragrance before it was time,
Thereby robbing me of their seasonal blessing;
Though the wind blew,
I remained untouched.
I, through my darkened window, watched.
I watched the dance of the dust
And the leaves
And the rain
Swirl in undulating fury.
I watched the sun wrap herself in a cloak of black
And withdraw from a darkening world.
I heard the wind chase its quarry
Down the street.
I heard the incessant slamming of doors and shutters
And alarms of cars screaming in protest.
I heard my own beating heart in a house
Whose power had been cut off by
Mother Nature's hand.
And I remembered, then, November.
Unlike that unexpected snow
Whose silent timbre
Begged a hurried world to stop and listen;
Unlike that unexpected snow
Whose dedicated task
Produced measurable results
While still allowing birds to feed from caring hands;
Unlike that unexpected snow,
This storm was foretold
By men who watched the heavens through mechanical eyes
And praised themselves as prophets
Who could see the future
And shout aloud to fearing souls
Of the coming Apocalypse.
Yet, could they know which tree would fall?
Could they, with all of their ability,
And letters of learning,
And arrogance,
Warn the man who
Unknowingly
Would seek refuge in a shelter
That would collapse?
Could they lift their almighty hand
And bid the wind to cease
If only for a moment,
So the sea would be still
For the fisherman to safely reach the shore?
Though the wind blew,
And the trees whose time had come
Fell;
I remained untouched and,
Through my darkened window, watched.