poem #94 (#CreativeSprint)

The trees didn’t stand a chance.
Left to grow unpruned,
branches tangled in telephone wires, roots
spread wide in patient mud.
The hurricane raged angry breath
against the branches, ripped apart
the trees, slammed them
upside down.
The trees shrieked with tearing,
the woosh of winds like fists against their trunks.

In the eye,
even the stillness was ferocious,
like the pause while artillery is reloaded.
I stood at the window,
peering into the inky black,
searching for the calm
with bated breath.

Today’s #creativespring prompt was to “Make something inspired by and/or that goes over an eye (yours or someone else’s).” So I wrote about Hurricane Isabel hitting Richmond, VA, and the moment when the eye passed over the city. I should maybe add here that I remember almost nothing about this hurricane, since this is when I discovered that my migraines were barometically sensitive–I spent most of the storm drugged to the gills and still in ungodly pain, occasionally aware of the sounds of the storm outside. I was able to stand up only when the eye passed over, and I remember looking out the window, exhausted, and marveling at so much violence.

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