I was describing a storm last night, and a friend said it sounded poetic, so I wrote it this way:
The storm builds in the west,
lighting the sky over and over.
Then the rain comes rushing across the field,
with the sound of thousands of tiny feet
beating down the grass
fleeing the wind from behind,
seeking the house before.
The wind and rain slash at the house,
seeking to get inside.
But the unflappable house quietly ignores it,
And protects us, as it protected Grandma for 50 years before.
Eventually the storm moves on,
though it continues to mutter and grumble.
We sleep.
