Hurricane Season

From the end of April
to the start of the fall,
these winds in the waiting;

the even breeze carries your name
on summer’s tease out of winter’s tame:
you’re the girl who taught me
why storms are worth chasing.

Our tempest gathered in spring
between two bridges,
at the hollow where first I felt
the softness of lightning;

the coming of your rains
in blushing at twilight
sewed in these fields
a life and lushness

as never they’d seen; even now,
when I listen at dusk
in the hush of the reeds,
I hear prayers of your name.

But as good weather fades
so ill-fated were we,
when on waking you were called
by a dream that wasn’t me.

And now though you’ve gone,
even so many years on,
the skies are the same:
you’ve always been my hurricane.

My soul finds home
by your ocean,
returning without fear,

when year after year
the waters will rise
and the waves will grow tall.

From the end of April
to the start of the fall,
now and as ever the breaking

of levees and of memories
of a river surging
and our currents converging,

dancing on the flows
of hot-blooded night,
guided by moonrise
in her cloudless flight.

But as cold settles in
with its haze and its shade,
I cling to the longing

for the last of its embers,
so desperate for those days
and the lightness I remember.

Seven now
of these seasons I’ve seen,
in the snow without you
to keep my spirits green.

Yet still here I stand
heart deep in the squall,
holding fast in the chill
to the ghost of your hands.

From the end of April
to the start of the fall,
I wait for these winds
that belong to the past,

walking the coast
as tides close in,
following a storm
never meant to last.