The Spring of Storms

We will call it the Spring of Storms.
We will tell stories of this rain, the
wild-fires of wind. We will remember
full brown rivers overflowing, houses
blown down, washed away. When
sun returns the flowers will bloom.
We will plant our tomatoes and peas
and nap under new roofs, and maybe
now and again, when the nights are
filled with thunder we will rouse in
the thick heats of summer as from
a distant dream and remember
all these nights of falling water.


PS: This was written before the terrible storms devastated Alabama and other parts of the southeast. I regret that my words may sound a bit cavalier in how quickly we might recover and forget. These storms have taken lives, and changed whole communities forever. I add my prayers to those of people all over this country for those whose lives lay in the path of the winds.


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, Poetry, Small Stones, Spring, The River. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Spring of Storms

  1. wrensong says:

    Thank you, Jessie.

  2. I like this poem the best…

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