Tonight I watched the most amazing storm it inspired this poem.
A procession of angry clouds was gliding across the sky glowing green from the moon’s reflection. The sky to the south was black and seemed endlessly immense with a half moon swinging from one corner.
There was an eerie absence of sound.
In the south, peace. In the north, turmoil.
In the south, endless possibility. In the north, anguishing responsibility.
The moon in the south with its chin tipped ever so slightly heavenward, undaunted in it’s immense black cloak, made no notice of the show at the other end of the sky that threatened to blot out his contented nodding.
The clouds in the north, however, wore the reflection of the sleeping moon and though they clamored over one another, flashing and snorting huge gusts of wind the storm couldn’t rid herself of that peaceful glow.
Climbing, rolling, flash again, “Behold my beauty, beware of my magnitude,” clouds rumbled by while blinding flashes attempted to blot out that happy moon.
Smaller and smaller the angry mass dwindled, blinking and rolling still chanting her mantra, “Behold my beauty, beware…” but her stamina was reaching its end.
“Behold my beauty…” a slow steady sigh slipped through the trees like fingers through long coarse hair.
“Behold,, behold, behold…” the clouds tumbled smaller until they were only a wisp on the dark horizon, enveloped by the thick black cloak of the silent moon whose reflection could not be blotted out.
Like the glint of light on the pupil of an eye he remained slung lazily from one corner of the night sky.
He noticed not, all the boasting and warning, he simply hung on, gentle and true evermore until the thrashing jeers were over and the storm was forced to succumb to his humble authority.
The night once again returned to peace.