When we were small,
we sat on lawn chairs
on tepid Sunday nights
facing southwest
watching for tornadoes.
We peered at green angles
under the stillness of fireflies.
Our hearts tickled silence
like ice cubes floating in glasses
of sweetened ice tea
as we waited for the imminent.
I dreamed about tornadoes once.
I was traveling on a western road
when storm warning sirens surprised me
out of my destination,
and tornadoes danced like court jesters
on the bridge over I-35.
When I woke up,
I didn’t think it was funny.
And I once saw an apple tree
shaken by roots
thrash suicidally
past my back window.
But I didn’t see what threw it.
I haven’t watched for tornadoes in years.
But just the other day
the back door blew open,
and blew shut again,
letting God in,
in one chilling breath.
Now I see the back door
has blown open again.
Its hinges are screaming
off-key and uncharmed.
And this time I need to see that dark wind,
to catch that raw dangerous breath at its source.