The Ghost of Where This Storm Started

Poetry

Photo by Geetanjal Khanna on Unsplash

The rain falls
hitting the ground with a lazy ease
like slipping on a favorite pair of jeans
old and broken into

I can hear its comfortable quality
jazz like riffs of heavy fat plops
an old friend knocking at the door
a meandering rhythm teasing the ground

There is a hint of chaos in all that comfort
the ghost of where this storm started
haunts its lazy tones
there are coffins in its memory

It’s just a little rain now, but tell that to the Gulf
an easy thing to slip on, familiar
even with all the coffins in its wake
still, the rain falls easily

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