by Earl J. Wilcox
And I will watch the spindly pine
trees shrug and quiver when the thrust
of wild wind one hundred miles per hour
slash across our back orchard and beyond.
And I will speak softly, calmly to you, hold
my heart, your hand if necessary when
the thunder rolls, the bolts of blue skies slice
across our soggy zoysia grass, greening.
And I will never let you go again until
the next hurricane, whether this year
or a century from now, when you and
I and all that’s ours takes us safely home.
Earl Wilcox lives in South Carolina, where Hurricane Florence arrived with gusto and ballyhoo.
 |
| Parts of a neighborhood are flooded in Latta, S.C. (Ricky Carioti/The Washington Post) |
And I will watch the spindly pine
trees shrug and quiver when the thrust
of wild wind one hundred miles per hour
slash across our back orchard and beyond.
And I will speak softly, calmly to you, hold
my heart, your hand if necessary when
the thunder rolls, the bolts of blue skies slice
across our soggy zoysia grass, greening.
And I will never let you go again until
the next hurricane, whether this year
or a century from now, when you and
I and all that’s ours takes us safely home.
Earl Wilcox lives in South Carolina, where Hurricane Florence arrived with gusto and ballyhoo.
style="border:0;float:left;margin:0;padding:0;width:1px!important;height:1px!important;" width="1">
0 Response to "LOVE IN HURRICANE SEASON"
Posting Komentar