She Sets the Mood

The old priestess gathered
storm clouds
with the same ease
as someone picking flowers.
She picked the fat ones,
the heavy ones, the ones
that gave way
to mist and suggestion
at the slightest touch.
She searched the sky
for lightning;
beyond those
recesses where sky and water
meet, she gathered bolts
for the upcoming task.
She picked up the seashells
where thunder hides
(inauspicious conch shells
held great booms);
she collected them all
and secreted them away
to her cove by the sea.
When the sun settled itself
into the infinity of the horizon;
when the blackness of night
erased the lines between
land, sea, and sky;
when the orange-crimson flames
of her fire was her only light,
she released her trove of elements
into the great expanse of darkness:
storm clouds that would unleash rain
lightning that would strike fear
thunder that would signal her intent—-
and then she cast her spell.