With a gust greater than Grandpa,
limbs break off and leaves litter
the roads. Lane after lane of obstacles.
I have no idea which way to go.
The sobbing rain screams of life’s loss.
She wears love’s black veil of death,
dwells in seedy harbor bars,
serves Hurricanes in grave size drinks.
Which storm will I swim in?
Grandpa died of a wind-swept heart.
He never understood why she left
a damper on what should have been Pop’s best.
He spent grief’s last days traveling home
and often spoke of how, “The road is a poem.”
(Image Credit: http://www.deadlystorms.com/damage2.htm)