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Your storms are battering the coastline
of my heart,
your angry seas boil over my shore,
your waves lash my rocks,
and lash again--
the trees are down, the electricity
is out all over the Island of Me.
I am a disaster area. Declare me.
In the pure windswept white-out of
spitting surf,
standing drenched and sea-spray soaked,
I do not see your light,
and you can not hear me
calling out to you, or praying
for this storm to end, with new life
in the tidal pools and a sparkling sea
for tranquil reflection.
August 23, 1996