In The Womb of the Storm

Under the clouds:
rain.

Cutting through monochrome shadow-skies,
the plane presses, deliberate, into the ceiling of the clouds,
the pitter-patter of drops against the pane
a torrential reminder of the unbreakable.
Hard surfaces abound, inviting static,
crescendoing cacophony
until—


…

In the womb of the storm:
calm.

There are no shapes here, only whispers.
A puff of vapor billows to my window,
inquisitive, and dissipates to explore other prospects.
A bolt of light is little more than an idea
passed from cloud to cloud with a soft laugh.
Someone quips a muffled thunder-rumble, and
the Parisian muse steps lightly by, calling,
“C'est tellement simple, l'amour.”



Sometimes another world I feel there is
Which, waking, I am far too laden down
To reach, but with a fleeting close of eyes
Nor weight, nor skin and bone cling to my soul,
Where whim is want and want is truth and truth—
O thing elusive—is simplicity.


…

Above the clouds:
sunset;
my whims and wants personified behind a pane.

Big booty, numbah two!
Numbah two, big booty.