The Exposition

               I lacked any poetry writing skill in the most absolute sense...until lately.  A creative writing class seems to have spurred in me a latent poetry vein.  It's fun, and intriguing, and surprising.  And now you are let in on the secret, too.

The Exposition

Now that the storm is over,

we still shrink and hide;

avoiding the certain presence of rain

that had become so engrained into our subconscious.



Now that the sleet has stopped,

the thick masses of grey clouds

seem willing to yield.



What once seemed an impenetrable sky,

an impregnable fortress formidable

behind grey billowing towers;

is giving way.



Sunlight still hides, somewhere

behind cumulous and smog.

We will not speak of color

nor beams of light, for it is far too soon.



The stillness of this interim,

we shall not risk.



Now that the storm is over,

we bask in overcast skies,

in a grey ceiling—

for it is far better than the gale.


We shall not ruin the reprieve by wishing

for what could be.

That may come, but we don’t say it.

We hardly even wish it.

Our souls have begun to dry out,

and for now, that is enough.