Tornadoing

You are an echo
reverberating
off of snow-drift mountains,

You create avalanches
that cannot be reversed,
the snow wraps around
lonely cabins,
muffling their interiors.

You set things in motion that nobody can do anything about.

No words of mine can bring your reign
to an end.

In all the folk tales and myths I’ve read,
which lately has been many,
no one character has had this much power.

You breathe snowflakes.
Your hand is the stone that cannot be moved
through the warm cry of a tornado,
and I know how scared you get
when the skies tornado.

Or of flying,
which is an irony
that makes me smile in my sleep,

because for someone who fears flying so much
you sure know how to take off.

I cannot be lost
when you are so close behind me,
peering into my
struggling,
disorientating,
fish-flopping world.

I become a little worse every day
at what I want to do
for the rest of my life

and that fact is only slightly discouraging.

I have so much to ignore:
the shifty glances
of the night-owl neighbors,
my relentless lack
of attention,
the fact that you are not always beside me for all hours of my days.

We’re running
out of time and time
is fading away from me
weeks at a time.

Don’t you know how I feel
and all the verses I wish I could say to you
every time we take too long to say good-bye,
don’t you know about the tornado inside of me?

It howls louder every night.

Please

don't be afraid.