Huddled against the wall of a back room
Where the oaks’ large limbs couldn’t fall,
Knees drawn up and held with clasped hands,
Fuses pulled from the breaker box, antenna
disconnected,
Wind-whipped clothes pulled off the line, damp and
unfolded,
As gathering clouds blotted out the light.
Silently they watched through the window;
Early winds billowed the voile curtains,
Stirred the over-heated room like hand-held fans.
Rain drops hit the screen and in a spitting flash of
light,
A tear in the fabric appeared,
The foundation of the house shook,
Windows gasped,
And dark clouds descended like swarms of locusts.
Eyes and ears are covered with trembling hands,
As glaciers calve and melt, seashores submerge,
Oceans bear oil slicks and plastic islands,
And elephants and lions disappear,
Those who speak or write of it are not heard or read
In the thundering clouds.
© cmheuer, 2014
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