The storm

Sunday chill morning looking outside.

The sky turns greyish black and the

birds are waiting silent still in the garden.


The storm begins and the growing

wind whips the frenzied rain across

the garden stark and green, dripping,

in this season of loneliness, looking

through the sheet of rain-soaked

glass that keeps the manic rain away.


And then, with just a turn of the

skittish wind, the sun emerges in

surprise, and the birds come out from

the wet chill to fly from tree to tree

as if nothing has passed but the cycles

that shape and guide their flights from

hatching till the natural course of death.


I whisper to myself: such is this life,

as from my window I see the trail of a

plane white in the bluish sky.