A night of pounding rain has run
The gamut of the course,
While overhead the sky has spun
A spiral orb of force.
We wakened to an early breeze
Disturbing bough and branch,
And jostling petticoats of leaves—
The prelude for the dance.
The maples scraped the window sill
And scratched against the pane;
Inside the house the dog lay still,
Ears cocked up to the strain.
Then suddenly she raised her head
And turned a feverish eye;
As severed limbs fell, newly dead,
Their thuds drowned out her sigh.
The fury of the storm unleashed
Destruction from her core;
Wildly, the winds released
The surges from her store.
The peace of tranquil yesterday
Today seems but a dream—
Routed by the flashing fray
Of wanton proud Irene.
2011©Brian T. Maurer