Thunderstorming Poem by Maya Stein

Call me lazy. Call me predictable and cliché and overused.
Bypass these lines if your currency is nuance, if what moves you
are the minimalist gestures, if the threads of the crosshatch seams in the couch
are the geographies you'd prefer for your treasure. I can't help it.
That splinter of sky, that divisive, decisive crack, fractured something loose,
broke and birthed it all at once. Sometimes, change is a jagged-toothed animal,
tearing the 'was' out so fast my head spins, and I watch, almost drunk,
from the window as the whole earth luminesces, shaking a raw hunger
out of my bones. Sometimes, storm is the only way to stillness, the great shaking.
How the feral animals run for home. How even the trees bow down.