The Tempest

A roll of thunder explodes from inside of her chest as the tempest stirs, awakens, and begins to rise. With the impending threat of a storm, a curtain of velvet drops over the world and, one by one, heavy drops drip from her slowly darkening eyes.

At first heavy and hot, then cold and sharp, the rain falls in sheets of fury, blurring and distorting everything behind an impenetrable yet iridescent veil – things aren’t meant to be seen but felt in the midst of such a storm.

The birds have long since flown for cover, knowing that even the trees will surrender to the force of these gusts. All things delicate – the flowers, the optimisms, the dreams, and the bright yellow tendrils of new little sprouts – seek shelter under the timidest hope, as the clouds gather, darken, and drop lower overhead; while all things green – the mosses, the leaves, her heart, her eyes – seem to grow even more vibrant, pulling from their garner of strength in this fight for their lives.

Although it brought a melee of emotion that forced fragile hopes to admit their naivete, and left ancient boughs broken and seedlings destroyed, this storm wasn’t born of malice and it held no ill intent. It, like any storm, was a natural phase and a necessary release – nothing more nor less.

Even still, it was only after the last drop had formed from the mists and every existential sigh had been spent that it naturally began to subside. Slowly, without angst or intent, it grew weary of itself and let go its choke hold on life, leaving nothing but the truth of what’s always been in its place.

It was then that there was a great exhale – a breeze that held both resignation and relief – followed by the hush, the vacuum that follows a disturbance finished consuming its own essence.

An expectant pause seemed to wrap around her like a bubble – at first broken open only by a single bird, letting loose one clipped chirp, as if cautiously testing the air to see if a song might be welcome once again. Then, like an exclamation point at the end of his outburst, a cricket sang and a squirrel jumped clumsily atop a rattling branch. In a celebratory instant, there was a rising tide of sound as her inner world, at first slowly and then vociferously, came out of hiding and jumped back into creative play.

In the ironic roar of peace once again restored, she dared to open her eyes. With them she saw her hope restored, for them she took one step up the hill, and from them bloomed the colors of spring.
© 2019 Cristen Rodgers