Tantrum
       

A word to the wise: do not attempt
to lasso my brief cyclone. So it's

whirling up dust and tromping down
hail, eking out a brash polka on the tin

roofs of our asleep town. Hungry,
it will take in fence-post and baled

hay and watering spout, will torrent
them back again to roads and verandas

only when its joints give. It is, in a
word, wild—wants a plain to knead

and banter, an empty sky to stake, and
will make one by shredding apart

our house. But it isn't for you to rope,
keep captive beside our half-beak

chickens in the yard, pawing bedded
stones and pacing in the heavy calm.

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Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Marie Hopcroft All rights reserved
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