another storm coming tonight
across the vast Green Peak Lakes and
the golden grains of Fairview countryside;
her name Sarah and she’s quite a looker
as she lets her wispy gray hair down
in an artillery of rain, pounding on cement
and gently tapping on the glass of my
window--
a groan in the distance,
her eyes a white vehement rage that could stare
three thousand men dead as she stirs
from her snoring slumber
and stretches the ligaments in her
crystallized fingers -
yes, this is the great dame whose
cries will peter out towards the end
of the night,
whose rain will shell only harmless
pellets that bounce off of the tender
skin of children and the shimmering rubber
of their rain boots.
another storm leaving,
her name was Sarah and she once
was quite a looker.