Will the storm ever pass
and will this one be the last?
Will my becalmed and tethered mind
remember the debris flying past?
I wished that I was of the earth
compatible with green growth
not expelling water and air
I wished that I was not a fire.
That I could be earthly bound,
my words be made of clay
and falling rain would sooth their sound.
Who am I talking to anyway?
I dreamed I was a fertile thing
in some glad primaeval dawn.
A rolling field primed to bring
forth gently waving ears of corn.
Not this gale of words; too loud
to catch the flow of what they say.
Who are they talking to anyway?