STORM
Rodney J. Hugen
It is when they turn dull green
that the clouds are deadly
and wreak precision havoc on my soul,
but the ones suspended above me
are heavy gray and much too sluggish to migrate
from shrouding this part of the planet
where I pretend to live.
Is the bankrupt sky a dismal blue
or deeper black because these clouds
lie sullen and repressed between us?
Does the sun slip silently beyond the horizon
to warm some other world where I do not exist?
Gorged with thick water
the hanging haze drip drools on my head,
but I know the rage it feels
Since it cannot explode the way it wants to,
it suspends movement and impounds its liquid
just over head and somber heart,
threatening like bullies do without a word
and with weapons hidden and obscured.
Black is never green though it longs to be.
Green clouds scream and curse,
but gray ones only sigh and groan,
encasing and refusing to withdraw,
envying the funneled olive clouds
that twist and rip,
while refusing to let go their darker rain.
And if they relent and rage
and rant and rave,
and bellow out the greater thunder,
and unleash their pent up flood,
will I celebrate the deluge,
or cry an insufficient tear in fear,
or will I surely drown? |
