November Storms

 (This poem was inspired by feeding my chickens, of all things. It was November, and a storm was brewing as I threw the scratch to them, most of which simply blew back on me. The rest of the poem grew with the clouds on the way home).

November storms

of wind, not rain—

things released

are things returned.

Four cloudy steeds traverse the skies

with silver hides

and lightning eyes,

their path unchallenged by the peak,

the stony sentry of the land—

he recognizes those they bear

so have a care

if you are there

to watch the Reapers scythe the trees

and bring the mountains to their knees.

The waters bite

the banks and fight

to join the riders in their flight,

their efforts goaded by the wind

the puckish trickster off his leash—

so long he’s waited now to teach

the mortal world to feel his reach.

At last the racing wind will fade,

to save his strength for another day,

and briefly clouds will bathe with tears

to soothe the seethe of mortal fears.

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