Twisting

This knot of weather,
this island of storm churning
with the heat of early summer,
sends wisps of hair
at the back of my neck
and near my face
curling
as perspiration beads
at my collar.

Declare it the growing season
with this first storm
where sirens blast warnings
to take cover--
nearer the pungent smell
of moss the better.

I am twisting in my chair;
unable to settle in
and watch these grey-green clouds,
so full of rain and electricity,
my mind frantic
for something
to anchor myself to.

I am used to running for cover
and hiding in dark spaces
under the surface of the earth
when the air fills with this much anger.
I do not know how to stand
with my hands on my hips
and let the winds
take the fear away
with each bead of prayer.

That is a new kind of worship
in this land with broken
stone fences.

Let wisdom come
and hold me solidly
in the arms of truth.
Let the  skies tear open
and the rains
wash me clean
until I am ready
to be twisted;
wrung out
and hung out
to dry.

With luck
morning
will find the horizon
and wake me again.