Betty Helen Collins

Storm brewing

Sinister the hot wind blew.

Hypocritical, warm it made no sound.

But the leaves knew, and whispered
together: the flowers crouch low,
pressing dulled heads in close confusion
to the ground. Occasionally, sullen
couriers of the clouds, big raindrops,
fall: slowly now, cautiously:

(They are the reconnaisance waiting
the time to strike: waiting til the
blustering wind shall give command.
When all the forces have been mustered,
the final word, the lull,
the dark,
and the storm will break.