When the storm has spent itself upon the shore
exposing rock and root and broken branch
then grateful souls will thank the gods and dance upon the tormented sands

and when the crying gull returns and the crickets once more play their broken violins,
then my lips will kiss your breasts of ivory
and my arms will be full of you again.

The wind may rip away the blossom and lay
the old tree low but that has passed and the wind returned to wherever storm-winds go.
( I confess, I fear the breeze that lifts the hair

upon my forhead and reveals the error of belief,
that allows us to forget the storm the moment it has ceased.) I laugh out loud at the wild wind, the rain, the thunder, the deafening din.

I laugh but always gather my things and hike well inland before I sleep.


© W.G. Myers