Irene walloped Rhode Island this week. My neighbors lost several old trees, and we came through unscathed though not unchanged:
Storm’s Alarm
By Steven Withrow
Asleep, we do not hear it snap—
That splintered limb
Succumb—
Or heed it rap our roof
And strike
The downspout dumb.
Awake, we think a bird’s deranged
A windowpane—
Chill rain
Has changed to hail—a gull?—
A gale—
A hurricane!
©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
4 comments:
Steven, this is fabulous--
you're breathing Emily.
The form behooves
the stormy starts
and sounds them gleefully!
Very lovely. In its forbidding, scary sense. Thank you for sharing your lovely poetry every Friday.
Nice work, Steven. Glad you are okay.
I love the sound and feel of all of your words, but the last three lines...oh, my! Fabulous!
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