when the weather wants to talk.

lightning_strike

 

The storm nudged me

through the window,

through the world

as I sat on the couch

just waiting

for something

to happen.

 

Through the window.

Through the woods.

Over the hill

strange lights

made crazy

in the clouds,

drawing me out

toward the park

on the mount,

 

through the woods

and toward the light

the hill crested

revealing the sky’s

silent inferno,

a hellish orange

miles away,

 

slow bolts of

skeletal lightning

cut through the

cream soup air

toward dehydrated ground,

 

reading it like braille

and drawing me into

the heart of the storm,

an alive thing

with a secret to share:

 

“Don’t be afraid of complexity:

I am a ghost of change.

You smelled me coming,

am I not welcoming?”

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

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