her hands were so small next to the storm
small and chapped
there was cream in her purse
but she did not take it out
instead
she looked up
at the dark clouds
there was rain on her eyelashes
that looked almost green
even though
it was not the kind of storm
where the roof blows off a house
or a girl ends up on top of a witch
wishing for home
that might be better
than the one she was in
her storm
never ending
was more
a tempest in a teapot
a little bitter
and wishing for honey
she pulled her coat closed
and crossed the street
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1 comment:
I love this poem. It feels so big and so intimate at the same time. Ominous, yet not out of control. Just lovely.
Thanks for sharing!
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