the silent storm inside my arms
The lightning struck where thunder failed to give warning:
a harsh blow in springtime afternoons.
We are all left
with smoking trees
and towers
and TV antennas.
Where tall cliffs once stood straight and strong,
the rocks now rest in a crumbling pile.
The clouds stooped low and blinded out the sun,
so I embraced the tempest as it mutely raged.
Steaming geysers release hot streams over rolling hills;
cold rain falls on even the most beautiful of roses.
The distant quake erupts without a sound,
a shudder detectable only when you hold your breath
and feel the shifting in the gentle breeze.
The breaking heart is still the beating heart.
We’ll pray on these tears for years,
and I’ll hold tight
to the silent storm inside my arms.
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