Though the storm abated
when the morning sky expelled charcoal clouds
whose light sabers summoned guttural roars
that shook my sleeping soul,
I remain cautious with dread
as I collect branches broken before their time
and leaves scattered across the path
leading to my garden pelted by hail.
My senses await the portent
of yet more of heaven’s random wrath
while my bones prepare to rattle
at the mere hint of barometric shift.
Then you bring me coffee
and bid me to pause
for just a moment,
so you can read to me
today’s forecast of clear skies,
light breezes and
perhaps gentle rain.
And you assure me that
the modest wren shall sing once more.