Hurricane Sandy, National Hurricane Center, NOAA
Who's prepared to stare down Sandy,
her Cyclopean nerve center manned
by an angry eye grown large enough
to take in some eight hundred miles
stretching from the Atlantic inland
to the Great Lakes. Who can be blind
to her unpredicable ways, the power
she's gaining by aligning her forces
with a nor'easter and that cold front,
too. She's not likely to change a course
that's been plotted for the perfect storm.
Whose trick's the worst when high tides
rise with full moon this Halloween Eve.
This monster's assuring us nothing
not anchored will stay hunkered down.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas
Two other weather-related poems: July Storm and Weathering It.