Hurricane Season

I am the hurricane

I am the storm

and yet—I control

when the waves pull me ashore.

I am the thunder, the lightning waiting to strike.

Yet I’ve forgotten—I decide

what uncertain weather feels like.

Waves of confusion

the mist in my eyes,

what I’ve deemed Category 5

is only what I’ve surmised.

A tropical depression, with tropical blues

Carrying winds of peril

and the promise of wet shoes.

Currents, vying for warmth

Storm surges, fighting competing urges

trapped, I feel

cursed, I am not.

I am the wind,

the howling outside my door.

Duck! Cover!

No.

I refuse to be torn asunder.

Refuge is on the horizon,

forecasting clearer skies

only after

Hurricane Season

evaporates—this time.