Storms Come

Last night thunder
in the distance
said: I will come.
Quiet at first,
then roared:

But I don’t remember its name.
There wasn’t enough damage.

Storms come
from the distance
all the time,
say: expect rain
and deliver,
as promised.

But we don’t remember names
without enough damage.

Then storms come
turn your around
expose your insides
say: I have come.
Rarely quiet
always unexpected:

And we remember. Name them.
Recount the damage. Again.

POEM ©2019, Jen Payne. On the 13th anniversary. IMAGE: Oak fractured by a lightning, Maxim Vorobiev.

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