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