Weather weaving
The thunderclouds are darker than the western hills.
The only light relief will soon be night.
Behind the rolling, blowing, lowly flying front
Are stars and planets peeking through the light.
The horses three are walking, trotting to the barn
Unsure of whether weather’s done for good.
The dog is scratching, whining at the kitchen door;
He’s pretty sure of thunder’s likelihood.
Now neighbor’s safety lights begin to glow and glare;
Electric fire interrupts the eve.
The sun completes his toil behind the hills and there
The final tick-and-tock of day are thieved.
But storming fading light can ne’er achieve
forever dark while weather’s Weaver weaves.
👁 3💬 1
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (1)
Log in to leave a comment.