Poetry

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Black and gray
boiling thunderous
storm clouds not
on the horizon,
but at the end of
my sunlit hay field.

The field, a carpet
of golden yellow.
The old elm tree
in the corner by
the gate, a pillar
of living green.

The sky overhead, a
shade of blue too
beautiful to
withstand the attack
of the massive dark
advancing Cumulio
Nimbus army.

The sunlit field also
falling under the attack
as a sheet of cloud and rain
gobbled the gold
inch by inch, foot by foot.

I stand, feet planted
to the earth like the tree,
lit by the sun like the field,
waiting, watching, praying
as the fist of the storm
approaches.

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