The Storm that keeps me Home
At the bottom of the yard I see
The blue pine wrapped in its own limbs,
Throwing its head forwards and back.
Rolls of thunder chase after each other
In the deepening black of the sky.
My mother wraps herself in her shawl,
And looks older than I know her to be.
The window panes are set rattling
In the old frames, and the storm door
Slams madly, again and again.
I think of the mud that must be running
Over the roads that wind down the hill.
In the storm there is a voice, begging me to stay.