The winds rise–
Not gentle breezes of slow change,
But blasts of immediately immolating metamorphosis.
She ties her hair back again in a bun,
Giving the icy persona of school marm turned librarian.
The skies grow darker–
Not the peace of a starry summer night,
But the sudden blinding black of brute force.
She slips off her shoes,
Testing joints misused and too ancient for her time.
Not a gentle rhythm of normalcy,
But the irregular cadence of a warcry out of time.
She slides into motion,
Closing her eyes even to the audience of One.
Air pressure fluctuates–
Lightning pierces the mahogany night,
As thunder and gusts intensify.
Her feet glide across the floor,
To an unknown, arrhythmic cadence.
Rain pelts the windows–
A sharp staccato beat
Turns arrhythmia into regularity.
She leaps, she twirls,
A slide here as arms wave fluidly there.
Drops hit faster and faster–
The regular staccato pounds the rhythm
That is the soundtrack to her fight.
Her wardance intensifies
To stomp out the hardships of life.
It ends abruptly–
The Son shines on more brightly
As puddles dry in the greener garden.
She collapses prostrate at His feet,
Sighing as her heart finds peace.