Facing the Storm
Years gather in clouds,
cast a shadow across the horizon.
Years bang on my bones
(like an angry neighbor on the floor above).
Time will subsume my being into the earth’s scars
until I’m not even a scratch
on the epidermal dust, nor even the least ripple on open water.
The storm is oblivion.
Ceaselessly meandering like Jupiter’s Great Red Spot.
It predates and postdates and informs me that I am
less than a raindrop in a weather event.
I gather my collar up on the back of my neck,
roll my shoulders forward
and narrow my visage toward the horizon.
Plant my feet apart and stand in the moment.
Certain to be swept away.
Yet stubborn as stone.