I was born
in the thunder
birthed
to the whip
of the wind
my father was known
as the weather
a cloud
was my mother
the womb
and I would ride
-saddled-
the storm
bucking the blitz strikes
of lightning
raining on earth
down below
I am cumulous
I am cirrus
I am the feather
contrail
of the sky
and I laugh
at the fury of tempest
because I
was the child
of wild weather
and I
dance the cyclone
that spins
I know the name
of each raindrop
and I kiss
each one
as it falls
I wait
patient
until it rises again
in mist
as a ghost
as my friend
I am the child
of wild weather
in the weird light
in a deep voice
I sing
© Frank Prem, 2017
December 2017 Poem #01: spring creek small walk: whispering secrets (that you want to know)
Good timing for a poem about bad weather
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Yep. Batten down the hatches and hope for the best.
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