After the Storm
a poem
After the storm
After the storm there was silence
After the storm you pushed back your hair and stretched your aching fingers and licked the raindrops from your chin.
You tended to the horses, restarted the fire, opened the windows.
You calmed the children because when the children were happy the whole world could think again.
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After the storm you crawled out from under that overhanging rock ledge to see how much water was inside your pot. There was some. It had some sticks inside it but there was some. After the storm you checked the garden, the tomato stakes had toppled and the parsley was flat but there were still mangoes on the small tree.
After the storm you gathered your papers again and watched the ink track little streams across the page.
After the storm the little streams around the cabin were wild and raging. Leaves and bark boats took corners like they were rafts on the Colorado.
After the storm you raced the bathtub boats down the gutters, and the noodle shop on the corner gave you soup in a paper cup.
After the storm you swept the leaves from the walkways, after the storm you shoveled snow from your neighbours driveway, after the storm you blew sand out of the courtyard and back into the desert.
After the storm you pushed nature back to a comfy distance and took a breath.
After the storm you restarted your car, rubbed a heart shaped hole in the windshield fog and drifted back into the highway. You carefully picked up the phone and called your mother, said I love you, and we’re all fine here.
After the storm you crawled out from under the table and found me and held me so tight and said it’s ok, it’s ok.
After the storm, after the howling wind and hissing waves, you placed your hands on your battered ship and you whispered, thanks girl.
