The storm system sags East,
a crotchety old lady leaning back
ever so slowly, she folds her form
into an aged hickory rocking chair—
her spine in an acute uncomfortable
She raps her cane on my porch rail.
In a spattering of hail, knocks on my door.
I slam it close, refuse to listen to
her words of lament,
complaints about her many aches
brought on by low barometric pressure,
the swelling of joints in south humid air..
The lightning rides her words,
punctuates her comments…
She sits, knits, rocks
and lets it all pour out—
a long soaking rain
that floods my open casement windows,
soaks the floors of my arid heart…
c. Darlene Moore Berg