A Robert Frost kind of poem that I improvised driving home in an afternoon storm.
Beneath my awning reposing,
Gray clouds I see swiftly closing.
Rain drops fall, interrupt my dozing.
The roar upon my tin roof growing.
Over my gutters the volume flowing.
Praise to nature this payment owing.
Cold wind from the north now blowing.
After image of lightening glowing.
Crashing cannon of thunder bellowing.
The slicing cold ignores my clothing.
I close up the house not knowing;
Just what hell behind the storm is following?
Or if to better shelter I should be going.
All this time, food I’ve been stowing
But from my stores I may be rowing.
No longer do I see the farmer hoeing.
Only now the dam just bowing.
Soon subsides the torment crowing
And to the stream the rain is flowing
And in the field the corn is growing
And in my yard the grass is glowing
And to the storm we all are owing
Our very lives and health bestowing
And humble am I at nature’s fury showing
C. Evan Thompson