I kneel here surrounded by grass

It is wet from recent rainfall.
The droplets soak into the knee of my jeans
And I continue to kneel anyway.

I gaze at the horizon-
I see the black clouds coming-
As if they are tormentors-
Returning to haunt my world.

I kneel in the field and watch the storm come.
I see blue tongues flicker threw the air.
I here their booming hiss as it shatters the peace.

I can see there dripping venom fall from miles away.

The storm is coming.

I feel the first drops of sin land on my shoulders and face.
I stand as if anything I do could change the inevitable.
I am blasted with the force of mockery.

The storm is here.

I am enveloped in the torrent.
It lashes against me.
As if to mock my protest a tree some hundred yards ahead shatters in a blue explosion.
A chunk of shrapnel clips my leg,
I wonder if it got wet from the drops in the knee of my jeans.

♤

I kneel back onto the grass.
The soaking ground ignores my soaking jeans.

I stand and look into the horizon
Black clouds are all I see.

I was not born a

poet.

I was broken into

one.


*Sandoval