After the Storm

we walked with the weight of wonder

and surveyed what was left behind by the raging surge of surf, the mad sea

the aftermath and aftershocks rocked us

left us with survivor’s guilt as we exhaled deep the post-adrenalin rush of watching &

waiting is a passive active verb

records were broken, hearts too, I try not to ask why, but I do

the beauty washed up on the beach, a by-product of broken records and mega-winds

is beauty nonetheless,

trust and hope and smallness swirl in the outer bands of me, waiting for the second once 

in a lifetime megastorm of nature’s making

make a colossal mess of my emotions but I cannot complain

the eye wall of my heart says I survived and am here to walk the beach

beat to a pulp and redesigned, everything newly formed like Genesis one

beautiful, maybe more so, though battered

creation recreates and draws another line in the sand

storm metaphors march on while the meteorologists Monday morning quarterback

the healers heal, the givers give, the hopers hope, and another one or two or more are on

the way

I whisper my questions so no one can hear

Now is not a good time

to be asking questions

Now is a good time

to be living with hope

I tell myself

to wait, until after the storms

to wait under the weight of glory