Storms Collage & Poetry by  Kathy Cotton

Storm Songs

Bassoon night. Bass drum and cymbals

and tuba night. An hour into sleep, 

I waken to the wind’s deep reed and brass timbre, 

limbs like mallet and rute striking rhythms 

against the house, crescendo clash of patio chairs. 

I fade into the storm song, a lullaby to me,

though never to Mother, whose raging fear 

stowed me beneath the sturdy oak safety 

of a kitchen table to wait out warnings.

There I wrote little weather songs:

“Tornado, Get Under the Table” and

“Blow Away, Rain.” There I perfected drowsing 

to wind chimes and thunder drums, as I do tonight,  

curling softly into a storm's dark serenade,

wondering if it can be heard above the clouds,

or below the peaceful grass of Mother’s grave.

                                                            Published 2014 by Forge

 My Tsunami

The turnings are slight 

and pale now, 

like green draining 

from October leaves,

Ontario winds sagging into

the last edge of southern heat,

our portrait smiles fading

imperceptibly. Your leaving

was an earthquake in my

ocean floor, heaving

tsunami waves that blasted

all ordinary life, drowned me

again and again, then settled

back as though debris on my 

shore were mere coincidence.

But the turnings are slight

and pale now: gray drifting

into a blue sky,

tears raining softly, passing.

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