Cower Before Its Arcane Might

The storms begin away out West
in softened shreds of flimsy clouds
which coalesce above our heads in
starkly frigid atmosphere – driven
there by rising air scorched fiercely
in springtime sun. These bringers of the
dousing rain, the brutal hail, the rabid
winds, deranged and cruel, wreaking
hurt insane but real – breaking
hearts and felling trees, drowning
us in plenitude. We sit and watch
the lightening flash, attend the crash
of thunder peals that echo over land
annealed by powers unleashed with
no appeal. We cower before its
arcane might, hope that we
survive the night.
© 10 October 2007, I. D. Carswell