Isabel Borgers
I lay in bed and listen
wind and rain beat the house
drawing me to the window
I look through a few blind slats
at the storm
a ghost of a spring hurricane
Even in the torrents of rain,
streetlamps illuminate
the fury of the storm
each lightning flash
reveals different snapshots
of the storm
I see the small river
of the street rain dances
on the surface of the water
the rain falls in sheets
indecisive, shifting directions
every few minutes
Hanging from
a neighbor’s porch
a pot of ferns swings in a wild circle
as I watch, it reminds me of
a child on a tire swing
desperate for a thrill
Further down the street
the willow, the willow dances
in the turmoil
its branches reach
after the wind
and it becomes the storm