Hurricane watch 


Trees bend low, 

branches seeking their roots.


Waves hurl toward shore 

with fresh vituperativeness, eager 

to rip beach sand away, torment 


a frothy tide lathered 

by wind. All the plants are in, 

windows boarded, taped. 


Hope is sealed amid 

glassed candles, bottled water, 

tuna tins, neatly arranged 


in a ritual to prolong life. 

Even kudzu writhes in futile try 

to uproot itself and flee 


madness of midday night. Clouds 

scud across the sky, 

seek a chance to fluff again. 


Outside, poppies begins to close,

beg passersby, take us in.

                              Timothy Pilgrim