Poem-A-Day: Day 84

Stormy Waters

so still that even though it was going to rain,
sombre clouds were rolling with
sinister intention from the west:
sullen, threatening roar.

shrimps, fond, retumed to perch on the keg and
sat
stolidly holding while the storm burst,
shook the wood and
seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field.

safety  sat at a side window
sewing furiously on a sewing machine
storm felt very warm and often
stopped to mop the perspiration gathered in beads.

small front gallery had hung to dry and
stepped at the gate,
stood there in the big rain
shelter of a side projection,
startled as if from a trance,
seized and
snatched, about to be carried away by a
sudden gust of wind.

soon apparent out in the open:
sheets, and something beneath the water
still retained their melting quality; and yellow
stubborn  temples
stood disturbed and clouded with moisture.

stiflingly hot and looking distant
struck at the edge of the field a
space with a blinding glare,
staggered backward
spasmodically releasing from retreating
seated, the warm, palpitating body drawn
     aroused for her flesh.

taken from Kate Chopin’s short story, The Storm