I was alone,
When the hurricane hit.
I didn’t evacuate.
I stayed in the house that was built around me,
Not wanting to let it tumble without me,
If it went down,
I would go down with it.
I stood on the back porch,
Letting the heavy rain of emotion wash away the painted exterior.
The hurricane took everything from me,
But I did not find blame in it.
It was an uncontrollable force of nature.
The fault was the house itself.
Not built to withstand anything but a gentle April shower,
Or a soft Autumn breeze.
The foundation cracked
Covered with a lovely sugar coat,
The window panes splintered,
But hidden by beautiful velvet drapes.
The shingles splayed out like missing teeth.
It was never meant to last an eternity.
A summer home,
Made for only a summer.
I sat on the banister,
Watching the rain pelt the house,
No mercy,
No end in sight.
The plaster on the walls cracked,
Snowing down onto the parlor furniture.
It was the pale horse of death,
The first sign of the bitter cold loneliness of winter.
Pieces of glass from a shattered mirror,
Littered the floor.
Swallow cheeks,
Hollow eyes.
Brittle bones,
Bald patches.
I was not meant to last.
I was alone,
When the hurricane hit.

Summer like all good things,
Must come to an end.
She is bathed in golden light,
Swathed in yellow and red
Light breezes and soft green leaves,
Are the pallbearers of her black ash casket.
There are no more rosy smiles,
Hidden underneath beach hats and sunglasses.
The air is no longer perfumed by her ocean breeze and the faintest smell of honeysuckle.
Summer no longer blooms in her sundresses and sandals.,
There are no more shorts and tank tops,
No more sunkist skin, peeling from time spent in the sun,
No more kisses shared under the trees,
Hushed laughter as you and a friend
spend the night in the tent your parents set up in the backyard,
Always insisting on camping at the house,
Though you are both old enough to go camping for real.
No more lemonade stands run by your neighbour,
On the corner of the street you’ve lived on all your life.
Spring heaves great sobs, the kind that wrack a girl with such a thin frame, longing for her sister
Winter wails, holding onto Spring and shaking,
Missing her antipode
Autumn sheds a glass like tear,
but her eyes deceive her actions.
There is no sorrow,
No remorse
Only grim satisfaction
The killer always shows up to the funeral.
For now there will be jeans and hoodies, paired with some warm drink,
Leaves crunching under boots,
school year starting,
kids mourning the death of the girl they all loved.
You miss her dearly,
The memories she brings back,
When there’s a gust of warm wind,
Making the wind chimes clink together,
Reminding you what you have lost,
As you
Walk to the bus stop,
on the corner of the street you’ve lived on all your life