Irene Poem by B. V. Dahlen

Roiling clouds gather
Shrouding the sun.
The tree tops stir,
Then shudder,
Rattle and bow,
Spitting leaves across
The lawn.
Small branch tips
Evicted from their places,
Like pygmy arrows shot
From wind plucked bows.
They plunge into
The shivering yard:
And then the rain
From drops to deluge
In a flash,
Obscuring near
And distant views.
The gauzy curtain,
Soaked and heavy,
Flaps sideways
In the gale.
The banshee wailing wind
Curls round the corners,
Catches jutting edges,
Ripped splintered missiles
Sail into the gloom.
The angry clamor
Of airborne branches
Hammers our walls,
And we cower
Waiting for
The parent trees to follow.
Oh Irene!
What have we done
To earn this ire?
Why scourge us
Like unshriven sinners?
We grovel at your might.