When a storm overtakes you
the kind that satellites see
as a massive, swirling spiral
its curved arms knocking down
hefty features of your life that
only yesterday had seemed
so solid
When you stand dismayed at the window
frozen for hours in anxious vigil
as trees are whiplashed violently
fences wobble
then collapse in surrender
and your favorite swing arbor
so heavy and steadfast
begins to sway side to side
as if to unheard music
leans boozily to the right
then topples into a splintered heap
fit for a bonfire
Pay attention to that sparrow
its nest long gone
seeking shelter from the merciless frenzy
it rises in the air a delicate geisha but
far outmatched by the sumo gale
is dashed to the ground
again and again
There is a corner where years ago
you planted a butterfly garden
twining morning glories hide
a gray utility box and you stacked bricks
around the fence bottom
to discourage the neighborhood rabbits
the lantana is now a mammoth bush
sharing space with bottle brush and daylilies
milkweed and herbs
Here in this corner the fence still stands
a place of miraculous stillness
an unofficial embassy
of the hurricane's eye
This is now the desperate sparrow's goal
When the handful of feathers
finds the quiet pocket of air
it drops suddenly out of sight
and you begin to breathe again
And your breath is a prayer
of gratitude to a tiny guru
who has just revealed
how to outlast desolation
in order to start anew in a world
beyond recognition
My backyard during Hurricane Beryl, July 8, 2024. The butterfly garden is on the left.
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