Poem Eight –

Icy finger tips spiral and coil around my throat,
The air is chilled and brisk,
My spine shivers with electric anticipation,
tiny raindrops begin to patter atop my head.

The wind howls and screams in anguish,
like a teething baby without a mother,
My red nipped ears recoil from it
in pain and fear.

The storm is coming, it’s rising, it’s beginning,
My frozen hands flecked like old, cracked china
with the painted patterns of thread veins,
My cool breath dances like cigarette smoke.

Finally I hear it, the deep, sonorous rumble,
the loitering thunder booms into being.
My heartbeat begins to canter excitedly,
and I wait.

The lightening illuminates the darkened sky,
The shining bright crack cavorts childishly,
Elements coming out to play like mischievous imps
that we’re lucky to glimpse.

By Becky Bite