Susan

She wanted storms

None face hatred and live.
Like Lot’s wife,
a firestorm rained down on her
and she turned to ash.

For some years she allowed herself to imagine she had
chosen to linger.

Susan

Wind

I

Who has seen the wind? Me.
In the exhausted tree, the worn
lines of plants in my dawn
garden, in the sand form rushing
along the beach throwing
itself at us, spoiling our food.
I saw this wind.  Its rude
gusts making children brood and cry.
The edges of it, I noticed
in the corner of my
eye that day; now in my memory.

II

Entangling wind tries to
free even while it captures – holds
us captive with chaos
breeding urgent desperation
to be still and escape
its persistent distraction.

III

It’s not the season that
Makes the dark but the wind in spring.

Susan