Deah Caldwell Poetry

Farewell night thoughts

from which my mind goes.

I nod off into slumber,

quickly dreaming of prose.

The fire is dancing.

The lights are turned down.

The streets are all drenched.

The hailing, it pounds.

Life here is drowned.

Like gods on a rampage

the roof might give way,

caving into a brick

and mortar decay.

Don’t go. I’m your wife.

This storm is quite

reminiscent of my life.

First, it was sunny and warm

and lovely and bright.

Then with electric veins,

the sky lit up at night.

The rain flowed promptly

without haste, without warning.

Icy, cold stones fell from nowhere,

beating until morning.

It’s pouring.

The nights feel restless, heavy, and cold.

My young body feels achy, tired, and old.

The storm has no rhyme, no reason to rage.

Death has no preference for status or age.

I have no solitude alone in this cage,

except for the beautiful sound of a child.

My three are enchanting, distressing, and wild.

Their laughter echos vastly through the depths of my soul.

Their needs help me face the most arduous of days.

They extol,

and I, they.

Little hands running through hair

and patting on backs

give life so much meaning,

give me a steady trek.

With little hands to hold,

mine easily stay warm.

Together with love,

we weather the storm.