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.

Thomas Boos recently graduated from the University of Pittsburgh with a degree in creative writing. He is applying for MFA programs, and submitting work for publication. 

©2018 HighShelfPress.