“The Tempest” by Raven Thatcher

My heartbeat quickens

I see your gloves shaking

I hear the hiss of an automated prophet

A beacon’s steady recitations

Spouting dark herald to the fodder

Slowly drinking the cheer from our morning air

My own breath, an empty plea

A forfeit to the turbid wind

Clouds above collect like marchers to a riot

An arm without beginning

Stirs the suspension to a storm

In its breach, a cerulean jewel

A clear, central gaze

Piercing and as shrewd as your own

Its legs – ephemeral pyres, blanched in flame

Fracturing the sky

Snaking through the fog and rain

Finding their cradle in the nearby mountains

They turn the forest to rouge

Its woodland blush reddens my skin

Its fever blackens earth and air Its

lust smelting leaf and bone

The dark fog prods and tickles my eyes

I can’t see much, but I see what I need to

I see the charred slivers of pine drifting above I see the framing of our house

And its whitewashed fence Making amends with the ashen soil

I see our vows drafted to the gale

Memories preferring the open air

My countenance too, gone in the fray

Yet I see you turn toward the tempest

Your finger placed inquisitively on your cheek

A novel impulse forming along the crease of your brow I see the corner of your lips start to curl upwards