The Storm III

There's a huge blue storm coming
in a massive curled swirl
on the TV weather map
but I think it is already here
as I feel the winds
echo in my body and my brain
is cold

I move sluggishly
as if the snow banks up
against my body
and the icy flakes taste
cold on my tongue

the upheaval of the dark
scudding clouds I can feel
in my stomach
and my bones creak

I keep banking the fire
as if with the orange and yellow
burn I can stave-off
a perennial winter
raging in my heart -
that dark vortex
revolving around my core
blank and pitiless
eternal as gravity.

In the mess of winds and sleet
showers, the driving snow
relentless fills my mouth and
ears
there is no seeing here
as the air is full of noise
and rushing motion
blinding the way.

Perhaps the way is shut
and there is no forward
step, my bags dried-out
dessicate the cupboard
useless now.  I put
everything away in a place
except the living thing
that lances me
that I feel like driving
rain freezing skin.

The storm's voice is loud
and the man's words
in the neat grey suit
and his pointing finger
know nothing of mountain
sharps and shattering.

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