At the end of every storm we’ve
grown used to we feel exposed.
There is too much light. Gone
the swaths of cloud wind tore
like clotted bandages from the sky.
At such moments we hear blood
throb in our ears. We fear others
divine the tempest in our thoughts.
Are not our minds crossed with squall
better to conceal the course of our bark?
Something is over — that is enough.
But wouldn’t we rather it not?
We are so naked when calm.
When spasms abate, we’re alone.
We greet pangs like lost friends,
losing ourselves in their clamour.
Then suddenly they are gone.
Through a cleft in the clouds
warm sunbeams rain upon us.