On this balmy November day, all of us stand beneath skies that have seen storms–but remember our voices amid the loud roar of thunder.
We are the palm trees–we bend, straighten, sometimes lose a few branches when there are storms in our lives–but we reach our own rhythm.
Our dance goes on despite the rain.
🌿🌊🌤️
My palm fronds dance in the wind
Watch kites kiss the sky
Tasting the metallic air–
Hearing, knowing, but not listening.
🌬️🪁🍃
They sense the tumult of the clouds–
The world in chaos, deer running.
The whoosh of wind and sands shift
My branches bend.
🌪️🦌🍂
The faint smell of sea salt
From waves that poured over.
But my tattered trunk remains.
My seeds sprout on new soil.
🌱🌊☀️
The calm blue sky returns–
My fronds sway in a new dance.
They feel the sea’s breeze as they traipse.
Hearing–and knowing their whisper.
🌤️🍃🌊
Yet I stand, listening, still dancing,
Knowing when to bend
And when to straighten
To my tune.
🌿🌬️🌞
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 