Member Poem

 
 
The Hurricane
 
My parents left me a perfect house
with many strong latched windows
to keep at bay the winter winds.
I filled their cases with my books,
my art on walls and table tops,
displayed my pagan dolls on beds,
one for each passage of my life.
 
From the coast came refugees,
their faces drawn and haggard,
some worried, others angry,
fleeing a paradise gone wild.
I saw the pick-ups pass by,
station wagons with supplies,
laden with what they could save.
 
The wind stopped playing gentle games,
the chimes I hung have left their hooks.
I saw the trees bend down and break,
heard the restive voices of the damned,
the cacophony of elements,
a horrendous symphony of souls,
beyond the shuttered glass.
 
I gathered up my many dolls,
clutched their little bodies close
while spirits screamed for hours
in languages I didn’t understand,
as a careless fury made its way
through a house of shattered windows,
they were with me through the storm.