A warning's been given.
The silence holds what's soon to become
the tip-tap of hail in July, snickering wind —
you cannot outrace all it gathers
to put down, transformed, before you —
woolly clouds punched up
and daubing a once-picture-perfect sky.
Thunder, roiled, like the slams of balls
hitting pins and then being guttered,
and the swelling black-inked expanse lights
up above you, your gin of broken spokes
and shredding fabric leaving you too little
protected in elemental but unspecified conditions.
A month from now, maybe two, you'll notice
how green leaves twist browned undersides up,
their curling edges left brittle to the touch.
Like your own feelings of need after
a long drought, their thirst breaks
the quiet that always precedes the storm.
© 2011 Maureen E. Doallas