Bluest blue,
Belies the timpani of thunder that warns,
Storm coming.
Trilling crescendo of avian flautists sounds,
As feathered soloists shelter in trees.
Couplet notes of dragonflies,
Scurrying, scrabbling snare drums of gray squirrels warn,
Storm coming.
Rat-a-tat percussion of cascading droplets
Bless my skin, kiss my hair, soften my dress.
Wet blades of grass waltz and conduct in elemental time,
Primal heartbeat metronomes,
Washing my bare toes with their grace.
Every windgust turns a new page in it’s airborne aria and
Warns,
Storm coming,
Storm cleansing,
Storm inspiring,
Storm renewing.
As it always will.
Poetry: Storm Coming
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