In the smoky sadness of my soul,
In between the lung that aches
And a heart that breaks,
There remains a small flickering light,
Hope and wonder, a filtered something.
Emotional thunder.
We await the rains that will wash some of
Our pains away. For a day, perhaps.
But the charred couch, and the burnt books,
And the immense shock in our stunned looks,
Will not be washed away. That is for another day,
A much longer time, of healing and comfort.
Mother Nature bats last, they say.
And she sure won this game.
If this disaster holds a tiny blessing,
It is this: That for a few moments, a few days,
No one cared whether you were for Trump or Biden.
No one cared if you were blue or red. Just safe. Not dead.
In the smoky sadness of my soul,
In between the lung that aches
And a heart that breaks,
There remains a small flickering light,
Hope and wonder, a filtered something.
Emotional thunder.
JHE 2020
