(Written for my little brother Eric,
Feb. ’85, when I was 14).
As he cuddled softly in my arms
like a helpless young fawn, I could feel his heart race with fear and see his fists clench with every boom in the sky.
The rain poured harshly against the windows,
and the trees were brutally beaten by the wind. The leaves lay astray on the ground, leaving the trees bare, alone and ashamed.
The thunder booms and the sky brightly lit
reveals an eerie grave of leaves. They fall close, so as to stay warm from the cold hand of the wind.
My brother lays heavy,
yet his limp body is as peaceful and calm as a blue morning sky. His is safe, for it’s only a storm.
He wakes quickly and smiles
but is still afraid of the howling wind as it makes its ghostly music through the treetops.
A squirrel is safe in its nest
and no bird flies willingly tonight. It’s now calm in the house and the rain is letting up.
It was only a storm.
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