A Storm
A cool moist breeze blows gently
from the western sky,
high clouds form overhead
passing through the night.
It is said a storm is coming.
My little square of green tin
twirls wildly in the wind,
a clapper high on its string
strikes the tubes who sing.
A song is played for the storm.
Kittens dance on the porch nearby
as wizer cats snooze, but watch with one eye
the dog; he waits across the street,
waiting for dinners remnants.
Soon they will all be wet.
I will move to drier ground,
leaving behind the rocking chair,
the wind chimes, and the cats.
Then, the dog will come to eat.
It is said a storm is coming.
Copyright © 1997