The Storm Poem by Gregory Huyette

A purple sky with
Its premature night
Arouses the breeze and
Sends it to flight
Through shivering trees
Who bow in its sight.

Ghosts of the sky
Gather and groan
Abhorring their lot as
They hang there alone.
Sudden arcs spark rumbles
Sending tumbles below.

A splotch, two, two million
And then...
The air is no longer
Sultry and warm,
But fresh and cool
In face of the storm.