THE COSMIC STORM

A poem

Her mind is like a cosmic storm,

Like notes on a page of music,

Like the markings of a wild tiger,

the whimsy of a ladybug,

the exuberance of a symphony,

the still spaces where poets dwell,

their chrysalis hearts light,

lit from within by

Fire like the kiln of the potter,

The glass blower blowing

soul wind into glass,

Synapses firing sparks of

Vital alchemy,

She has a hidden reservoir,

Inside

The chambers of her heart,

Her lover slumbers there,

Then wakes,

The pulse in her veins,

Ever a reminder,

No one truly ever dies,

That we miss their soft, fragile

Bodies,

Their strong arms pulling us

Into an embrace,

The art they create,

The sound of their voice,

Then,

She smiles at the folly

Of buying the Brooklyn Bridge once

because the realtor was so fine,

She throws back her head,

Laughs like stars,

Like purple pansy faces,

Like resistance, the tension between

The lyre of her heart and

Her lovers,

Like a blessing of hearing her own

Heart for the very first time,

Rising,

Rising,

Rising,

The ecstasy of being free.