Early-Winter Thunderstorm

Image of Long Story Short Award - 2022
Image of Poetry
The mist is born with stardust in its blood,
A violet cosmos hidden in its eyes,
The cutting sands of Egypt in its breath,
A thousand wailing crickets in its cries.

With tense lashes, I dissolve into the air,
A silhouette of essence left behind,
Enchanted by the hills all whittled down
By wind that welcomes me into its mind.

I listen, though the sounds are small and far.
I search beyond the corners of the sea.
I press my freckled ear on trembling pane,
The echo of Wind's voice kept close to me.

The acrid sun is long forgotten now,
Overcome by thickened, mourning gloom.
New, vibrant light is Fury in those clouds,
But still I love its cold, dusty perfume.

While corroded hills heal from the rain,
The brume exhales, as gentle as the spring,
As steady as the mountain's yawning strength,
As innocent as every perfect thing.

And this wandering winter billow is complete.
No mortal rage can guide its trailing arms.
Though mankind may resent hostility,
The cratered earth adores Elysian charms.

But I am drawn away from roaming dreams,
My flush reflected off translucent glass.
My feet, now yearning, planted by my bed,
Wait for sterile, stormless days to pass