This poem came to me in the aftermath of Hurricane Ian.

Slugs, bulbous and black and saturated, glisten on fences.
Wind swirls, leaves seized in its fury.
Trees lean, weary, on lines, taut.
Water ripples with each gust,
Threatens bottoms of cars, edges of houses.
A pool overflowed down the road,
Muddied saline solution, thousands to contain, flees its prison.
The only sound is the ebb and flow of storm, hammering homes like the tide,
And sirens.
Humans huddle against the skin of the earth, her blood’s warmth too deep to touch them,
And pray as nature—ancient, unrelenting power—wrests tribute.

© Copyright by Syndal

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