I wonder if a hurricane ever weeps over its inability to come gently into town.
Does the storm build so quickly inside of itself there is no time to mourn
The destruction caused in its wake?
Or can it feel the swell, the air building, slowly corrupting its intentions –
It means well but always fails to change its wild ways.
Does it plummet back into the sea with embarrassment,
only to witness the soft rains sweep over, healing the land with its forgiving drizzle.
I bet a hurricane can crave tenderness too.
The wind probably grows weary of its own reckless motions,
Whispering to the sky a prayer for control only to
Hear a whistling roar from its own mouth as it is swept off in a new direction,
Running from the places it may find peace.
Surely a tornado aches at the sound of slamming doors,
As it rushes in and out of houses, never finding a home.
Crushing its own soul with splinters from broken fences,
reminding people settling down won’t save them.
I have to believe a fire wishes it could repair the bridges it’s burned
Wants to dance backward across the path that is now only
Ash and smoke, creating hazy memories of how there was
Once a connection there.
The heat of its own flames must occasionally feel like too much,
Maybe the sparks flying out are just signals begging someone to tame them.
I wonder if a hurricane ever weeps.