Storm The Sun

Gather us swift as you find this shore;
Hunger tangles our feet in snares, all but wings
Sweep wind stiff as dried grass around you:
Tempest-clothed, gull-frothed.
Walk the beach with our cry, not the water
In the wind you raise. A scream, like strings.

No one sees her feet upon the strand,
drowned or dry.

Someone has baked a crust with butterfly wings
Fanning the oven-hot afternoon, a swirl of pan and hips.
Surely no one prays the storm above the steam,
No one shatters the roof of a doll's house in the sunflower bed
Broken in the boat of the sun, the crèche of day.

There is no grief we can't pick away, bird and breeze,
Like bologna and cheese.

Gather us, mother of the storm, walk in chiffon like egg
Splattered upon the sand, something rising, half-born.
Oh, storm. We swoop into your skirts, your children.
Who calls you? Who breaks the nest, drops the star
To watch a universe solidify, unborn, on the shore?

The above is being cross-posted at The Sunday Muse's Muse #6 and owes its existence not to a storm but rather to what feels like an all-too-early summer and a beastly headache. Not above thinking kindly on a few storm clouds to dull the glare.

-- Chrissa