My daughter stands in the wind
-- hair flung in strands--
like a figurehead come to life
riding the crest of the storm
I fear her recklessness and long to join her
as I herd the youngster to the porch.
But she has traveled beyond the safety of my arms
onto a stage
where dark cloud curtains, part swirl,
mound cell upon cell;
She sways with the wind that parts the meadow grass
unafraid of the consequences of her stance,
partakes in the summoning
of heat, light, thunder.
She moves with the elements lost and found in their fury.
Wind howls through branches.
Rain and hail bounce and clatter on the roof
strike her, cool her, bruise her.
And still she stands
wrapped in a blanket of her own making.
I want to call to her, but stop.
The storm is hers to claim
As it is mine to reject
until it rumbles and mutters toward the east.
