Tornado Season

The cellar doors swing open wide beneath a wall cloud
that beats the steel under black vortexes
its belly empty, only scattered dead spiders
under the corner bench,
and the damp cement box, its brick colored steps
catch our heads, sink us into the earth like a strange drain,
hurry us as sirens wail, winds surpass the speed of hurricanes,
hurry us into the hours of waiting, filling the time replacing
batteries in the small radio that is never strong enough,
where we know a morning away from this we will witness the fallen white blossoms
replaced by cocky leaves, popping the limbs like strutting roosters
bok, bokking at the sun,
so warm in the aftermath.




















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