She comes screaming out of the west
like a philanderer’s wife with white fire
along her wings and a voice that sends the dog
cowering to the cool tile of the bathroom floor.
She shakes night by the throat
and rattles my solitude as she drops me
into indescribable darkness with all
the sensitivity of a Turkish jailer.
She shreds roses from their stems,
her brittle ice fists battering my roof
and my reverie as she rails at the lackluster
sameness of my temporal existence.
But tomorrow, as I broom branches
and leaf debris from the yard, she will return
in cerulean blue with a lacy, white top
to whisper her soft apology through my hair.
And I will forgive her again, even thank her,
for clearing the air of red dust and blue bottles;
for inspiring my heart, electrifying my soul,
and filling me with the breath of life once more.