Forty-Mile-per-Hour Gusts
A fierce, brisk, vociferous wind is agitating the lake,
Whose waves are panicked spectators
Trying to escape a theater an arsonist has set ablaze.
They rush frantically, haphazardly, in a thousand directions,
Some crosswise, others headlong, into the shore —
A blind, mindless crashing of kamikaze combers.
Red and white pines guarding this cabin are up in arms;
They're violently wagging boughs, anyway.
Vicious gusts seem intent on tearing limbs from trunks.
I stay indoors, safe yet cowering,
Knowing better than to venture out even onto the porch,
Fearing I might be grabbed up, carried off, aloft,
Into that invisible zone of terrible swirling turbulence,
Cast adrift, blown back to where I left, just yesterday —
Home.
05/18/09 - (1)
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