split the clouds and leave jagged edges,
throw thunderbolts like stones
skipping across pond water,
draw sheets of rain like curtains
over the windows.
Storms carry
winds that ripple the torrents,
throw away all things disconnected,
howl at lightning channels that are hotter
than the
sun.
Storms break
the surface of the day,
expose the raw breadth of light,
the heavy weight
of sound,
and the endless
depth of words,
knitted
together out of bedlam,
before
the skyline begins to clear,
wind
spirals stop spinning,
and
the silence of the day returns.
©cmheuer, 11/2024
