Storm winds from the west
Send us scurrying down the plank
Steps into the dank basement
Sounds become deafening as the
Skies darken
Whatever is happening
Is only visible through a four-paned
Window no larger than a newspaper
At age seven this is all new
Thunder, lightening, storms
Have come and gone
Usually starting in the west
Among growing and billowing clouds
This time the darkness is heavy
Winds blow straight yet swirl simultaneously
A look of fear unlike any he has seen before
Covers his mother’s face
His father, a man of few words and a placid personality
Forces new wrinkles upon his worried forehead
The hay barn slides across the yard
Walking as though each wall has legs
Slowly collapsing, it crumbles into the granary
Once it lands the storm begins to abate
They will survive
Slowly, step by step his father, then his mother
And finally he ascend to view what damage
Has occurred. One view and he knows the answer
The devastation is real and substantial
Survival, storms, childhood