Poem-A-Day: Day 245

Tornado Innards

Clouds spiraling like drunken ballerinas
spinning,
mixing up dirt salads
with millions of little fingers
twisting perfectly on point,
and throwing everything in a fit of rage,
the unequivocal fury
of a woman scorned
and the frenzy of longwinded wrath
as it blasts half knocked posts through glass,
cement,
and anything else that can be made of sand.

To be at the center of such an event,
to watch the dancers interacting
and creating their own Danube
out of the sweat of grays and greens,
the atmospherical, global majesty
and natural movements
bringing swathes of death,
destruction pocked landscapes
full of the remnants of weeping shallows,
and the promise of nothing
but bearing witness
to the finest detonation of color imaginable.