Hurricane: A Poem

She is a spring-fresh sea.
Her hair is smoother than the water-worn stones
paler than the creamy pieces of abandoned shells
her eyes are the night sky; dark and deep, yet speckled
with proudly glittering starlight.

He is the storm and sky above.
Heavy contrasts; softest blue in his eyes peeks through
beneath the brim of his hat; this, all the colors of charcoal
cold and abandoned.
Draped in a coat like the grim reaper’s, he walks like shadows.

She is a spring-fresh sea.
Playful and longing, she paces
the beach, back and forth and back and
hides her truest beauty far below
in a world all her own.

He is the storm and the sky above.
With winds and rains he howls that he
is alive.
And feeling his persistence, his cry like mist on your skin
You know it’s true.

She is a spring-fresh sea,
He is the storm and sky above.
And when they meet — waves rising from themselves
abandoning peace, and he reaching his hand
like the torrent from above, they ache for each other.

First, like the softest kiss, sky and sea meet.
Now scatter, take shelter
For when the wind meets wave, and relentless meets restless
Then?
Then a hurricane is made.